Who Tells Your Story
by when-is-winter-coming
Summary: "Let me tell you what I wish I'd known when I was young and dreamed of glory: You have no control who lives, who dies, who tells your story."
1. I'll Be Around

**Prologue  
** **I'll Be Around**

" _I swear that I'll be around for you. I'll do whatever it takes, I'll make a million mistakes, I'll make the world safe and sound for you."_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 14  
** **Victor of the First Hunger Games**

I almost jump as the phone rings, loud and shrill, on the stand beside my bed. _Breathe._ Okay. Pick it up. Colonel Shields has started calling me on the phone recently – even though his room is right downstairs – because he thinks it'll give me practice talking to people without having him right beside me. Without being able to look to him for cues about what to say, what to do.

So I pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Maverick." Silence. He's waiting for me. Waiting for me to say something.

"Good morning, Colonel," I echo.

Colonel Shields chuckles a little. "Kid, how many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Arthur?"

I know. He says it every time. But it just feels wrong, somehow. Like calling your parents by their first name. Not that he's my father, but he's sort of stepped into the role ever since I came back from the Games. He's been like a father – or maybe a grandfather. I wouldn't call my grandfather "Arthur."

Still, I'm not really in a mood to argue. I'm usually not. After the war, after losing my parents, after the Games … nothing else really seems important enough to argue about. Every other little thing that might annoy other people seems so trivial. So I shrug a little and shout, "Good morning, Arthur!" with all the volume I can muster.

He sets down the phone. I hear him coming up the stairs. In a moment, the door opens, and he walks in with a smile on his face. "That's more like it. Are you ready?"

I nod. As ready as I'll ever be. Today is the reaping. It's been a whole year. A year since I volunteered for the Games, desperate to get off the streets – desperate enough to risk my life. A year since I stood on that stage, alone in the world, facing incredible odds that were certainly not in my favor.

I survived. I lived. And now, as long as the president approves my request, I'm going to help others do the same.

It was my idea – going to the Capitol along with the tributes. They have Gloria, of course – District One's escort, but I thought … well, I thought maybe I could help, too. Maybe offer a little advice, a little encouragement. Colonel Shields and Gloria said they would suggest the idea to the president, and we've been waiting for an answer.

We don't have to wait long. Gloria is there to greet us as we enter the district square, grinning from ear to ear. "He said yes!" she blurts out before I can even ask the question. "You're going to be the Hunger Games' very first mentor."

"Mentor?" What does that mean? What's a mentor supposed to do? Gloria opens her mouth to answer, but Colonel Shields holds up a hand. So she waits. Waits for me to form a more specific question. "Mentors, do—" I stop myself. Complete sentences. _Think._ "What … does a mentor do?"

"Anything you might want," Gloria gushes. "You can help the tributes get to know each other, you can give them advice, you can help them prepare for interviews, think of training strategies, choose allies – everything!" I must look a bit nervous, because she immediately backtracks. "But you won't have to do any of it alone. I'll be here for you the whole time – just like last year."

I nod. That makes it a little better. A little less intimidating. I swallow hard. I asked for this, after all. I wanted a way to contribute. I just didn't think … well, I guess I didn't think they'd give me so much responsibility. I thought maybe they would put me in charge of helping the tributes find their way around the Capitol, or making sure they have some idea of how the Games work. I never thought they would want to put a fourteen-year-old in charge of _everything._ But I suppose they figured since I survived the Games, I can handle it.

And maybe … well, maybe they're right. I survived the rebellion. I survived a mine explosion that could have killed me. I survived an arena of tributes who wanted me dead. How much harder can this be?

* * *

 **And ... we're back. That's right: Logan, Stars, and I are back for our second collaboration story, and we couldn't be more excited. As you've probably figured out (or maybe not if you jumped right to the bottom) this is the Second Hunger Games. A few guidelines are on my profile, along with the tribute form. Please send your tribute forms in my direction so we have them all in the same place. We look forward to seeing who you send our way.**


	2. Learned to Manage

**Learned to Manage**

" _I shoulder ev'ry burden, ev'ry disadvantage, I have learned to manage. I don't have a gun to brandish, I walk these streets famished."_

* * *

 **Brooke Murray, 18  
** **District Four Citizen**

They're calling it tesserae. A way to provide the districts with badly-needed food after the war. A way to give us enough resources to rebuild. Any citizen between the ages of twelve and eighteen – reaping age – can take tesserae for themselves, and for each member of their family. Sounds good, right?

But it's a lie. It's all a lie. Because it comes with a price. For each tesserae you take, your name goes into the reaping bowl one extra time. They tell you that beforehand, of course, but some of us … well, we're desperate. Eighteen-year-olds already have our name in the reaping bowl seven times just because of our age. What's one more?

And for me, it _is_ just one more. I lost my family in the war. I don't have anyone else to care for. I can only take tesserae once, and, in addition to putting in extra hours down at the shipyards, I have enough to get by. Barely. I'm still living on the streets. There's still an aching in my stomach every night when I settle down in whatever alleyway I can find that seems the least damp and chilly. But I get by. I've learned to manage.

I'm just one person, though. I don't have anyone else to care for. Others my age have families to think of – sometimes families they're in _charge_ of after their parents died in the war – on either side. If they have enough siblings, their name could be in the bowl five or six times. Their chances of being reaped could be doubled.

Which is the idea, of course. They don't want to leave it completely up to chance. They don't want their most well-off, productive citizens to have the same chance of going into the Games as us street urchins. They can't reward their top citizens by taking their names out of the bowl – that would look a bit _too_ unfair – but they can punish the rest of us, and make it look like a favor while they're doing it. They're giving us extra food – how thoughtful.

I wouldn't be surprised if Bliss' family had something to do with it – at least in District Four. She and her family were completely loyal to the Capitol during the war. They spread Capitol propaganda like wildfire and helped sway so many to the Capitol's side. And how were they rewarded? Their daughter was reaped and sent into the Games. The chances of something like that happening again just got a lot slimmer.

And, for the rest of us – for those of us that the war left hungry, destitute, and desperate – the chances just got a lot worse. None of us _want_ to take the risk of putting our names in more times, but all of us are banking on the thought that at least there are poorer, larger families whose kids' names will be in the bowl even _more_ times than ours. That maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe the odds will still be in our favor.

I shiver as I head for the district square. There's only a light drizzle, but, after spending the night in an alleyway, trying to keep warm, it's already soaked straight through my clothes. I keep my eyes on the ground as I take my place with the others my age. None of us say a word. There's nothing to say. Nothing to do. Two of us are going into the Games. Two of us are probably going to die. There's nothing I can do about that. Nothing except hope … hope that it won't be me.

* * *

 **Submissions are still open. Thank you to everyone who's submitted so far. Keep the tributes coming. :)**


	3. Look Around

**Look Around**

" _Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now – history is happening."_

* * *

 **June Pennington  
** **District Four Escort**

At least I can't do worse than last year. And that's not just being optimistic, either. Last year, District Four's escort, Sylvia Shaw, got herself killed by one of the tributes during the train ride. That particular tribute – whose name was Memphis – proceeded to get himself blown up stepping off his pedestal at the start of the Games, and was quickly joined by his district partner, thanks to a lucky throw of an axe by the girl from Seven.

They placed 24th and 23rd. The only way I could possibly do worse than that is if both of my tributes – whoever they are – somehow _both_ get blown up at the same time before the start of the Games, and tie for last place. And since that seems … unlikely … this year will be better. It has to be.

That's not good enough, though. Better than pathetic is still pretty pathetic, unless I manage to bring home a Victor. After a year, it's even more clear that it doesn't particularly matter where a tribute placed. Both Memphis, who placed last, and Neblina, who placed second … they're both just as dead. Just as gone and forgotten by most except their families. In the end, it doesn't matter _where_ a tribute places. It only matters whether or not they win.

But that … well, it's not really up to me. Not much, anyway. I can give them advice. But, in the end, what they do in the arena is their choice. It's my job to do my best to make sure that they come home alive, but, in the end, only one of us is going to succeed in that goal. One escort out of twelve is going to be escorting a Victor home. Only one person brought a Victor home last year – Gloria in District One. It's not that the rest of them didn't try, of course. It's just that only one person – only one _tribute_ – can win.

I shake my head as the train finally arrives in District Four. Hopefully we'll have some better prospects this year. One would think that, with a sixteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old last year, we would have had a good chance. But the eighteen-year-old was a rebel who got himself targeted by the loyalists during training, and might have been killed quickly even if it weren't for his stupid mistake at the start. And the girl – Bliss – was a loyalist who got herself targeted by the rebels by joining up with a trained soldier despite having no experience of her own. Hopefully this year's tributes will have more sense.

I slowly stand up as the train comes to a stop. It's not about having sense. If they don't have the sense to avoid making targets of themselves, it's my _job_ to keep them from making stupid mistakes like that. General Tyrone did his best to help both Districts Seven and Four last year after Sylvia was killed, but he had his hands full. I only have one district to worry about.

But first I have to worry about not getting _myself_ killed.

The Capitol stepped up security, of course, after Sylvia's death. There are two Peacekeepers beside me as I make my way through the district's streets and towards the square. But, even more importantly, Memphis was a rebel soldier. There are … fewer of those these days. The more dangerous or influential ones have been executed. The rest – surely they wouldn't try anything like that again. Not after what happened to Memphis.

Because it can't have been an accident – the fact that _he_ was the one who stepped off his pedestal and exploded that mine. If he hadn't, the Capitol would have found some other way to make sure that he never made it out of that arena alive. Killing an escort – that would mean certain death.

The truth is, though, that there are rebels who don't care about that. Who don't care if they die, as long as they take some of us with them. Who are willing to sacrifice their own lives if it means killing more of us. And those – those are the most dangerous of all, because it makes them unpredictable. They can't be trusted to act in their own best interests, like most people can. They can't be anticipated. Can't really be prepared for.

I can't help glancing around at the crowd that's gathering in the square. I'm being paranoid. But _not_ being paranoid got Sylvia killed. She trusted her tributes. She tried to help Memphis – even after it was clear that he didn't want to be helped.

I can't afford to make the same mistake. If the tributes want my help, that's fine. I'm more than willing to give it to them, to try to keep them alive. But if they don't want my help, there are no second chances. They're on their own.

* * *

 **Submissions are still open, and there's plenty of room. We have 22 submissions, but quite a few people have submitted multiple tributes. (We'll probably end up taking more than one per submitter in some cases, but the point is don't be scared away by the higher numbers - the more, the merrier.) We're in particular need of some younger (12-15) tributes and could use a little more racial diversity.**


	4. Lower Your Voices

**Lower Your Voices**

" _Geniuses, lower your voices! You keep out of trouble and you double your choices."_

* * *

 **General Luther Tyrone  
** **District Seven Escort**

Everything is a bit quieter this year – that much is evident as soon as I step off the train. There was a little bit of a crowd last year, waiting to see who the Capitol had assigned as their escort. This year, there's no one. Maybe that's for the best. They probably wouldn't be happy to see me.

Not that they'd be happy to see _anyone_ from the Capitol. Especially not anyone who's come to take two of their children away. But this … this silence goes deeper than that. Deeper than the resentment I'm certain they all feel. Deeper than the sense of loss that will fill two families today. Today isn't just about loss and hopelessness. It's about fear.

I wish it didn't have to be. Wish that we could simply be rid of the spectre of last year's Games, the shadow that seems to be hanging over the whole district as I make my way to the square. But it's still there – that feeling – lurking in the shadows. Looming in the crosses that line the square. They're empty this year, but last year…

No. Last year, I did what I had to do. What I was _ordered_ to do. The tributes – rebels, both of them – thought that they would be able to prevent their loved ones' executions. One volunteered out of desperation. The other refused to let his friends volunteer for him.

Both died. So did their families. Their friends. Everyone they'd been trying to save. It wasn't my choice, but I can already see the blame in their eyes. The hatred, festering just below the surface. But they don't dare give themselves over to it. They don't dare act on it.

And that's thanks to the fear.

But it's not just the memory of what _I_ did that lingers. Not just the memory of the executions I carried out. The boy, Simon, died at the start of the Games – one of the very first deaths. But the girl, Silver … she lasted longer. Long enough to carry out the brutal murder of the boy who had killed her district partner.

Murder. I don't use the word lightly. After all, the whole point of the Games was for the tributes to kill each other. I could hardly fault her for doing that. But what she did … no, that was murder. She tortured him to death – the boy from Two, whose only crime was killing her district partner in order to save his own. It took almost a whole day for him to die.

She paid for it, in the end. Maverick killed her, but he was kinder than she. He made it quick. An execution, not a murder. Maybe he simply didn't want to give her the chance to fight back. Or maybe he learned a thing or two from his parents before they passed.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters – not anymore. And yet, we mustn't forget. The people of District Seven will never forget what the Games did to Silver. What they turned her into. She became the monster that the Capitol citizens have always whispered about when they spoke of the rebellion. She proved us right in a rather spectacular way.

I should be grateful for that. I should feel vindicated by the prospect of a rebel showing her true colors. Instead, I pitied her. In the end, she was merely a child, torn apart by the Games. Powerless to resist the hateful urges inside her – the same urges that live in us all. The Games don't create those feelings, those instincts, those _desires_. They simply set them free.

I take the stage silently. The crowd watches. Waiting. Waiting to see who I'll choose. But it's not up to me – not really. I'm merely playing the part I've been assigned – just as much as they are. The only difference is that I know it. I've accepted it. Maybe even embraced it. And that – that willingness to accept my role, to play the hand I've been dealt – it's what's kept me alive. And maybe … maybe it will be enough to keep one of them alive, too.

* * *

 **Thank you to everyone who submitted! We ended up with 26 submissions, so making cuts didn't take all that long - hence tonight's chapter. We ended up being able to accept at least one tribute from everyone who submitted. We did have to move a few tributes around - and one or two to districts that weren't listed as an option on the form - but we hope everyone's happy with the way things turned out. We're really looking forward to this.**

 **Just a few more quick things.**

 **1) If there are any changes you'd like to make based on the district your tribute ended up in, feel free to let us know. Also, if any of the eleven people who chose some variety of knife/throwing knife as their weapon would like to pick something a bit more unique, let us know. Knives are cool and versatile and all ... but there are other weapons. (And, to be honest, "throwing knives" doesn't make a lot of sense as a go-to weapon unless your tribute has some reason they already know how to throw them right, as it takes a considerable amount of practice.) If not, that's fine, since their "weapon of choice" really doesn't have much effect on ... well, anything - unless they happen to be in a position to have their choice of weapons.**

 **2) If you haven't given us a quote/faceclaim for the blog ... please do. You know who you are. If we don't get something soon, we might just make something up. ;)**

 **The blog is at whotellsyourstoryhg . blogspot . com. The tribute page will be up once we have everybody's info, but the Capitol/Escort/Mentor pages are up and ready to go.**

 **Here's the tribute list:**

 **District One:  
** _Charlotte Jacquard, 17_  
 _Ra Schintozo, 18_

 **District Two:**  
 _Jayda Greggory, 18_  
 _Julian Masters, 16_

 **District Three:**  
 _Dina Brookfield, 15_  
 _Rick Therald, 17_

 **District Four:**  
 _Lexi Concord, 15_  
 _Jethro Brackish, 14_

 **District Five:**  
 _Ada Lavoisier, 17_  
 _Apollo Lancey, 14_

 **District Six:**  
 _Elinor Siesto, 18_  
 _Jae Park, 17_

 **District Seven:**  
 _Aria Barker, 16_  
 _Bentley Norman, 13_

 **District Eight:**  
 _Lacey Blair, 16_  
 _Atleigh Chaplin, 12_

 **District Nine:**  
 _Mel Mills, 13_  
 _Jim Demetrius, 18_

 **District Ten:**  
 _Hannah Malacek, 17_  
 _Darrin Tunell, 18_

 **District Eleven:**  
 _Phoebe Linden, 12_  
 _Mantle Grimes, 15_

 **District Twelve:**  
Ivone Eister, 17  
Isaac Swarthy, 16


	5. Join the Fight

**Join the Fight**

" _I may not live to see our glory, but I will gladly join the fight."_

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I wish I was sure about this. I really do. I hold Aria's hand as we make our way to the district square. A crowd is already starting to gather. Waiting. Waiting to see who will be chosen. I squeeze Aria's hand tightly as we both take our places. What the crowd doesn't know – what they _can't_ know – is that half of the reaping has already been decided.

Maybe I'm not sure what will happen if I volunteer. What will happen in the Games. What will happen to _me._ But I do know what will happen if I don't. If I don't take this chance now – my _last_ chance – I'll spend my whole life regretting it. Wondering what might have happened. Whether I could have been the one to make things right again. To restore my family's honor.

I never realized, I guess, just how important that was. During the war, honor was the last thing on my mind. We were just trying to survive – my father, my older brother, little sister, and I. Just trying to get by after our mother deserted us to join the rebels. But then she was captured. Executed. Revealed as a rebel in front of the whole district. Things didn't go so well for us after that.

Once the war finally ended, we thought that maybe things would be better. That we could go back to the way things used to be. But everything got worse after last year's Games. After a rebel from District Seven tortured the boy from Two slowly to death, there was backlash – especially in District Two. Suddenly, everyone who was connected to the rebellion – in _any_ way – was a target.

Never mind that my father had remained loyal. Never mind that we'd been nothing but loyal, productive citizens throughout the rebellion and ever since. We were outsiders. And there's only one way to change that. Only one way to prove our loyalty. _My_ loyalty – to my district and to the Capitol. I _have_ to volunteer.

No. No, I don't _have_ to. Father hasn't even really asked me to – not directly. But he's hinted at it. Little comments here and there about how he thinks I'd have a good chance of winning, especially since I started waking up early in the mornings to run, started volunteering for more physically taxing jobs at the factory. Building up my strength. My endurance. I want to be prepared.

But being prepared … Is that really going to be enough? The girl last year – Gardenia – she was a trained soldier. She was as ready as anyone could be. And she still lost. Sure, she placed third. But she still lost. She still _died_. I could die, too.

Even if I die, though … maybe that would be enough. Enough for my family. Enough to convince the district of our loyalty. Maybe my father would be able to do business again. Maybe Aria would be able to walk down the streets without being taunted because of her rebel mother. Maybe my family will be able to walk the streets of District Two with their heads held high, because I was a tribute.

Maybe. But _certainly_ if I'm a Victor. Anything that my mother might have done will be forgotten. Overshadowed by what _I_ did for them. For my family. For this district. If I have that chance – the chance to redeem all of us – I _have_ to take it. There isn't any other choice.

And there won't be another chance. I'm eighteen. This is the last year I'll be eligible for the reaping. After that, it would fall to Aria…

No. No, it won't. She was just a kid during the war. She still is. The family legacy shouldn't rest on her shoulders. My brother, Leroy, is twenty-two. Too old to volunteer. Aria is too young. This is my job. My responsibility. My burden.

I just hope I'm strong enough to bear it.

The crowd musters a cheer as our escort, Titus, takes the stage. For a moment, he seems surprised, as if he didn't quite expect such a warm welcome. But things have started to change since last year. When Gardenia and Vance's bodies were returned to their families, they were paraded through the streets. Given a proper military burial. They were treated as heroes. Maybe that's a lousy thing to die for, but as long as _you're_ not the one dying, it doesn't hurt to honor the fallen.

But I _could_ be the one dying. A few minutes from now, I could seal my fate – or, at the very least, change it forever. It's all in my hands. Hands that are shaking as Titus gives a little speech about honor and loyalty. I should be listening. That's why I'm here, after all. Why I'm volunteering. But all I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat. My own breathing. Does it sound this loud to everyone else? No. No, it's just me. Just my own fear. The realization that this is it. All I have to do is—

"Belinda Harrison!" Titus' voice shakes me from my thoughts as the fifteen-year-old section starts to stir. This is it. He didn't call my name. It's up to me now. It's my choice. All I have to do is stand still. All I have to do is … nothing. If I do nothing, I'm safe. Safe from the Games forever. But I'll always wonder…

"Wait!" I call as the girl takes a few steps towards the stage. "Wait! You don't have to go. I volunteer!"

I make my way to the stage quickly, but I can't help glancing back at her. The girl I just saved. A girl I don't even know. Does she know me? Has she heard my name whispered? My mother's name? Our family name? Does she know I'm about to restore that name?

No. No, she just knows that she's safe. Safe for another year. Relief is the only thing I see in her eyes, but, for the moment, that's enough. She's safe. The risk is mine now. The danger is mine. But the chance for honor … that's mine, too.

Titus is grinning as I take the stairs two by two until I'm standing beside him. He's a head taller than me, but, right now, I feel like I could touch the sky. And I feel like my stomach just _might_. I don't know what I was expecting, but I wasn't quite expecting to feel this … alive.

"And what's your name, miss?" Titus asks.

I take a step towards the microphone. "Jayda Greggory." That's all I say. All I _need_ to say. My name – my _family's_ name – spoken proudly for all the district to hear.

"Excellent!" Titus doesn't seem to know what else to say, either. There were a few volunteers last year – both of the tributes from One, the boy from Four, and the girl from Seven – but none here. He clearly wasn't expecting any. But it's also clear that he's excited. That he thinks I have a chance. And, for now, that's enough. It's _more_ than enough.

He reaches into the second bowl and draws a name. "Clarence DeMont!"

The sixteen-year-old section stirs. But it's not just one boy that steps forward. It's two. Two boys, arguing quietly among themselves. I can't catch what they're saying, but it's clear that one of them wants to volunteer. And the other…

Finally, one of the boys steps forward. Stumbles a little. Makes his way to the stage, staggering, with something in his hand. A cane. "I volunteer!" he calls, nearly tripping over the first step before getting his bearings. Then, more firmly, "I volunteer."

Titus doesn't seem to know what to make of that. He turns to the other boy – the one in the crowd, who's followed his friend to the stage. "And you? Clarence, is it? It's all right with you if he … volunteers?"

The boy opens his mouth. Closes it again. Deciding. Just like I was. All he has to do is stay quiet, and he's safe. Finally, he nods a little. "Yes. If … if that's what he wants."

The other boy – the volunteer – nods back. "It's what I want."

"And what's your name, son?"

"Julian Masters."

Titus nods. "Well, then, District Two! Let's hear it for your two tributes! Jayda Greggory and Julian Masters!"

It's a moment before the crowd starts clapping. In that moment, I take a step closer, and finally get a good luck at my district partner. I nearly take a step back again. I'm sure the look on my face is one of surprise. But, fortunately, he can't see it.

He can't see anything. His eyes – he's not just blind. His eyes are gone. As if someone gouged them out. Tore them from his face. It's all I can do not to look away.

But I don't. And as he reaches out his hand, I grasp it tightly and shake it. He smiles a little – and it doesn't seem forced. The smile is genuine. As if he's actually … happy.

No, not happy. Not quite. The look on his face is the same as the look I saw in Belinda's eyes. It's not happiness. It's relief. But why? Surely he knows that he just volunteered for a fight to the death. He has to know that he has no chance. So what's he doing here?

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

I'm sure they're all wondering the same thing. What I'm doing here. Why I would volunteer, knowing what's going to happen. I'm not stupid. I know my chances are … well, calling them 'slim' would probably be generous. I'm blind. There's no way around that. No clever trick that I can use to win – not against twenty-three perfectly able tributes.

But this isn't about winning. Not really. It's about not _losing_. Not losing anything else. Any _one_ else. The Capitol took any respect the district might have had for my family. The district, in turn, took my eyes. But they're not taking anything else. And they're certainly not taking _him._

Clarence. I think maybe, as the door opens, that it's him. But it's my parents. I know their voices. Their smell. My other senses have gotten a bit better since … well, since everything else went downhill. But I'm not naive enough to think that will save me.

And neither are they. They both hold me close, their tears wet against my shirt. I can hear the girl's family talking in whispers, but I don't care. I'm not going to tell my parents not to cry. Not when we all know. They know this is it. The last time they're going to see me alive – in person, at least.

But the last time I saw _them_ was almost a year ago.

Maybe I should blame them. It was their decision to join the rebellion, after all. Their choice to join up with a small force on the edge of District Two. They never saw any real action, but they helped feed and clothe the troops. Kept watch. Helped keep everyone's spirits up. I helped out where I could. Fixing meals. Running messages. Anything to be useful. Anything to help the cause.

Until it was clear the cause was lost. Near the end of the rebellion, we deserted. Came back to District Two, hoping to weather the storm. To go back to our old lives. And, for a while, it looked like we might actually be able to. The Capitol was targeting rebels, yes, but only the more important ones. The leaders. Ones who had actually _fought_ in the war, certainly. It wasn't exactly a secret that we'd helped them, but, for the most part, people's scorn was limited to glares and whispers. I could deal with that.

Everything changed last year, during the Games. Tensions grew between Capitol loyalists and anyone with even the slightest _hint_ of a connection to the rebellion. Whispers turned to taunts, and taunts to blows. I did my best to ignore it. Really, I did. But one day, three boys came up to me on my way home from the factories.

I just wanted to go home. Honest. I didn't mean to snap. My parents had tried to warn me, of course. How many times had they told me not to fight back? To just take it and move on. Sticks and stones. But I was _tired_ of just taking it.

They didn't understand – none of them – _why_ we had joined the rebellion. They didn't know what it was like – these rich kids who had never had to work a day in their lives because their parents were friendly with the Capitol. They didn't know what it was like to never know when your next meal might be. They didn't realize that the rebellion was about more than not _liking_ the Capitol. That it was about what was _right_ – for _all_ of us.

They didn't understand. And they still don't. I never got a chance to tell them. One of them slapped me, and this time, I didn't walk away. I didn't turn around and ignore it. I punched him back, as hard as I could. It was stupid. There were three of them. It was a fight I had no chance of winning. But I thought I could show them – show them how tough I was. How tough the _rebels_ were.

But I didn't. I wasn't. I wasn't tough at all. They beat me, and I cried. After the first dozen blows, I begged them to stop. But they didn't. They kept kicking and punching, but they finally decided that wasn't good enough. They tore off my shirt – what was left of it, anyway – and dragged me down an alleyway to a barbed wire fence around one of the tenement buildings.

Once we were out of the streets – once we weren't in the open anymore – then I really got scared. They took the pieces they'd torn from my shirt and tied me to the fence. I could barely stand on my own. I thought they might actually kill me. One of the boys started laughing at the tears in my eyes. Then I guess he got a bright idea about how to stop me from crying.

He tore one eye out. Then another. A few more blows, and they left me there. Bleeding. Battered. Blinded and terrified. I cried out for help, but it was hours before someone actually helped me. Hours before Clarence finally found me and half-carried me home. I don't remember much else from that night – just the pain. Pain so bad, there were times I wished they _had_ killed me.

But that's what they wanted. For me to _wish_ I was dead. They didn't want to kill me. They wanted to see me suffer. So I made a choice. I wasn't going to give them that satisfaction. Once I got my strength back, I went back to work. Clarence stood by me. Helped me. My job was mostly sorting rocks, anyway. I'd always told him I could do it with my eyes closed. It always seemed so funny then.

Nothing seems funny now. There's nothing that I can say to fix this. Nothing that will explain to my parents why they're going to lose me. The Capitol … they've taken everything. In that moment, I just couldn't … I couldn't let them take Clarence, too.

So they can have me, instead.

Finally, the Peacekeepers come to tell my parents their time is up. I'm shaking as I wait for what's coming. What I know is coming. Clarence's arms are around me before I even have a chance to realize he's in the room. "What were you _thinking_?" He's crying. I can tell that even before the tears reach my shirt.

But I knew. I knew – and maybe he does, too – that he wouldn't come home from the Games. There's a reason he was the only one to stand by my side when the taunting started. He's loyal. He's good. He's kind and gentle and peaceful and … mild. And, in a friend, that's a valuable thing. But in a fight to the death … that's deadly.

He wouldn't survive. I won't survive. But given the choice between his life and mine, I'll choose his. Every time. I don't want to die, but I _do_ want him to live. And I had the power to do that for him. To _give_ that to him. It's what I wanted. It still is.

"It's okay," I whisper, my voice cracking. "It'll be okay." And it will. Just not for me. But, in this moment, holding my best friend close, knowing that I just saved his life … yes. Yes, it's okay. He's safe. He's going to be safe. They can't have him. And that – that means I've already won.

I can feel Clarence's hands on my shoulders as he finally releases me from his arms. "Thank you," he says softly. Then he reaches out. Lays his hands gently on my cheeks. Presses his lips to mine.

I don't pull away. I didn't expect this, but … maybe I knew. I knew how I felt about him, but I never imagined…

No. No, that's a lie. I _did_ imagine. But I never acted. Because the district already had enough reason to ridicule me, and I didn't want to drag Clarence into that. And because, after that day, I didn't think I would ever trust anyone enough to let this happen.

But I do trust him. I love him. And maybe there's no harm in admitting that now. I lean into his embrace, and I don't let go. I can't let go. Not until the Peacekeepers come to take him away. To separate us one last time. "I love you," he whispers, squeezing my hand tightly as he's dragged away. "Please … please come back."

I can't. I know I can't. And I won't lie to him. I would never lie to him. So I say the only thing I can. "I love you. Remember that. Just … remember."

Remember. Remember me. Because as hard as I might try – and I _am_ going to try – there's no way I'm going to survive this. There's no way I can win. We both know it. Everyone knows it. There's no point in trying to hide it. No point in trying to hide anything. Not anymore.

And there's something about that that's almost … freeing. No more secrets. No more lies. No more reason to hide who I am, what I feel. I'm going to die in these Games. But at least I got to live.

"I'm sorry." The girl's voice startles me back into the moment. "I didn't realize when you volunteered—"

"Neither did I," I admit. But even if I'd known – even if I'd known that he felt the same way – it wouldn't have changed anything. I would still have volunteered. I would still be sitting here.

But the girl – she volunteered, too. She had her own reasons. Just like me. It's a small bit of common ground. And I'm not stupid enough to think that she'll want to help me. But, for now – for this one moment – it just feels good to remember that I'm not alone. And maybe … maybe I never was.

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

At least it's only for one more year. One more year, and it'll be over. One more year, and my cousins and I won't have to worry about the Games ever again. I mean, sure, we'll still have to _watch_ them every year – or, at least, as long as the Capitol decides they're necessary – but we won't have to worry about being _in_ them.

Technically, I'm the only one who has to worry this year. Trystane and Fallia are already nineteen. Already safe. They've both been fussing and worrying over me, and Uncle Tyrek forbade me from taking the tesserae the Capitol offered, even if it might bring us a little extra food. My name is already in the bowl seven times because of my age. No point in taking the extra risk if we don't absolutely need it.

And we've managed to scrape by without the extra food. We've always managed to scrape by. Maybe things aren't great, but they could be a lot worse. There were plenty of families who lost more. That's what I tell myself every time I catch myself looking around for Aunt Oliana. She died during one of the Capitol's bombings. And there are still times when the house feels a bit empty. But that was three years ago. We've learned to move on. We've had to.

That's what she would have wanted, after all. For us to appreciate what we have. Not to dwell on the past, on what could have been, or to fret over the future. Sure, I wish she was still here. But she's not. And there's nothing I can do to change that. Nothing _any_ of us can do except try to move on without her.

Trystane, Fallia, and I head for the square, with Uncle Tyrek close behind. As we reach the crowd of teenagers, Trystane claps me on the back. "Stay safe."

As if it's up to me. I have no say in what's about to happen. Whether I'm chosen or not. But there's no point in worrying about it now. So I simply ruffle his hair. "Just make sure you don't get called by mistake – they'd never know the difference." I might be a year younger than Trystane, but I've always been taller and stronger. And he's always been more like a little brother to me than a cousin. Just like Tyrek has always been more like a father to me than an uncle.

I catch one last glimpse of Trystane and Fallia before the crowd propels me forward towards the section in front of the stage. Cousin. Brother. Uncle. Father. Who cares? Blood is blood. They've been my family since I was small, and that's not going to change now. Why would it?

The crowd grows steadily larger as more and more teenagers find their way to the square. It surprised me a bit last year – just how many of us there are. How many of us actually survived the war. It seems like everyone lost someone during the war – a brother or sister, a mother or father, an aunt, uncle, or cousin – but we sometimes forget how many of us _lived_. How many of us are still here, alive and well. And that's certainly something to be grateful for.

Gratitude, however, seems to be in short supply these days. No one wants to focus on what's going right. I'm not saying that things couldn't be better – they obviously could – but they could also be worse. Much worse. And it's easy to lose sight of that sometimes.

Even our escort, Athena, looks a bit … deflated, I guess … as she takes the stage. I can't help wondering why she's still so upset. I mean, sure, she lost both of last year's tributes. They decided to team up, and actually lasted quite a while before the girl from Two finally found them and killed both of them.

That was quite a shock for everyone in the district. We'd thought that maybe one of them had a chance. And it obviously took its toll on Athena, too. But it's been a whole year. And this year, she has another chance. _We_ have another chance. She should be focusing on that.

But she's not – that much is obvious as she greets the district. There are no cheers. No applause. No one is happy to see her. It's not her fault, really – she's just doing her job – but no one _likes_ her job, so no one likes her. That doesn't quite seem fair, but it's hard to blame people for being upset. It's not like we're going to be _happy_ that two teenagers are going to be fighting for their lives in a few days.

Athena gives a short speech, but it's clear the crowd isn't really listening, so she decides it's better to just get it over with and heads for the first bowl of names. "Let's start with the girls, shall we?" she asks. As if we have any say in the matter. As if it's going to matter to the unfortunate girl who's chosen whether she was picked first or second…

"Olivia Parrish!" Athena calls. The twelve-year-old section stirs a little, and I can't help but feel sorry for the girl who steps forward. She's shaking like a leaf, and I can't really say I blame her. At least last year's tributes were both seventeen. They had a _chance_ , and even if they both failed – even if they both _died_ – at least it wasn't entirely hopeless from the start.

"Wait!" Another girl's voice slices through the murmuring of the crowd. "I volunteer!" A girl from the seventeen-year-old section strides forward, past Olivia, and takes the stage, glaring at Athena. "I volunteer."

Athena raises an eyebrow, but she's certainly not about to object, and Olivia is already disappearing gratefully back into the crowd. "What's your name, then?" Athena asks.

"Hannah Malacek," the girl answers. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. She doesn't _look_ familiar. Maybe it's just a name I've heard around the district.

Athena tries to smile as she heads for the second bowl. Hannah's a bit thin and malnourished, but at least she's older. More likely to come home than the little twelve-year-old who would have been going into the Games otherwise. Maybe it's better if we send someone who has a chance…

"Darrin Tunell!" she calls.

It takes a moment to sink in. Darrin. Darrin Tunell. That's … that's me. Something escapes my lips, and I slowly realize that it's a laugh. Not a laugh, really, but a nervous giggle. Like she can't possibly have said _my_ name. She can't really expect _me_ to fight other teenagers to the death.

But she can. They all can. Because, as soon as it's obvious that _I'm_ Darrin Tunell, the Peacekeepers start making their way towards me. _Shit._ What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to run? But there's nowhere to run, and the Peacekeepers are getting closer. Still giggling, I head for the stage. Everyone's looking. _Stop laughing._

The girl – Hannah – is staring as I join her onstage. "What are you laughing for?" she demands. "It's not funny!"

I know. I know it's not. It's not funny. It's not funny _at all_. But I can't seem to stop giggling. The whole thing is just so … so surreal. It doesn't seem like it's really happening. Like it _could_ happen to me. They could have picked anyone they want to fight to the death. Why would they pick _me_?

Just bad luck, I suppose. Like the bad luck Aunt Oliana had when she got caught in the bombing. Like the bad luck that got the districts in this mess to begin with. Bad luck during the war. Bad luck after it, when the Capitol decided that _this_ was the best choice for how to punish the districts.

Finally, I manage to control myself long enough to hold out a hand to Hannah. She eyes it skeptically for a moment before reaching out and shaking it quickly before letting go. "Get ahold of yourself," she hisses. "Everyone's watching!"

They are. The whole district is watching. Everyone in the Capitol is watching. All of Panem just saw me make a complete fool of myself. That's not really something I've ever cared about before. I'm used to looking … well, a bit silly. It never really bothered me. Other people can think what they want.

But now … now what they think matters, whether I want it to or not. The people in the Capitol – what they think of me could keep me alive. And now the first impression they have of me is that I'm a giggling idiot. Great. That's just great.

Actually, maybe it is. Maybe it means they'll underestimate me. Yes. Yes, that's it. They'll never have any idea what I'm really capable of, because they'll assume that I'm stupid, or drunk, or just completely oblivious. They'll have no idea what I can really do.

What I can really do. What I'm really capable of. But am I? Am I really capable of doing what they want me to do? Am I really capable of killing? Because that's what I'm going to have to do if I want to come home. I take a few deep breaths as Hannah and I are led to the Justice Building. This is real. I'm going to have to fight. I'm going to have to kill. And I … I just don't know if I'm ready for that. But do I really have a choice?

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 17  
** **District Ten**

At least this way it's my choice. I clench my fists tightly as Darrin and I are led to the Justice Building. I don't know why they're bothering bringing me along. It's not as if anyone is really going to come and say goodbye. Not as if anyone is going to care that I'm gone.

That's not why I volunteered, though. Not really. It's not that I _want_ to die. But there's a part of me – a part that's been growing more and more with every day – that doesn't really _care_ one way or the other. Part of me that doesn't care _what_ happens, as long as it's finally my choice.

Because, for the last few years, it seems that nothing has really been my choice – or anyone's choice. When the Capitol began drafting soldiers from the districts, my father didn't _choose_ to go with them. They threatened to kill the rest of us if he didn't cooperate, so he did. Our family pretended to support the Capitol, but it didn't matter. When mutts were released on the outskirts of District Ten, they didn't discriminate between loyalists and rebels.

My mother. My brothers, Carter and Colby. My sister Rosalie. All gone. But I survived. I vowed to get revenge – because what else was there for me to do? What else was left? Only a few weeks later, I learned that my father had been killed fighting for the Capitol in District Five. He'd joined the Capitol army to save his family. And they all died anyway.

All except for me.

There have been times in the past few years when I've wished I had died along with them. Especially at first. I joined the rebellion and volunteered for the most dangerous missions I could. I told myself that it was because I wanted to do my part. To be a hero. But really? Dying a hero seemed easier than living with my grief, my pain.

Then I met Aubrey. She'd lost her family to the Capitol, too. She understood. For a while, we fought together. Risked our lives side by side. It was almost like having a sister again – except she was stronger, tougher than any of my siblings had been. Rosalie was only twelve when she was killed. Carter was ten, and Colby was only five. I loved my siblings, but when I was with them, I was responsible for their safety. Being around Aubrey – that was different. Almost like having a twin. Another half of myself.

But last year, she was reaped. Maybe I should have volunteered for her then. But even if I'd wanted to, I don't think she would have let me. She never wanted other people taking risks for her. She probably wouldn't have wanted me to volunteer this year, but…

But I didn't do it for her. Not really. Not even for her memory. If anyone asks, I could say that I did it for the girl who was reaped. That little girl who looked so much like Rosalie used to. I could say that she reminded me of my sister, and that I wanted to protect her. That she had so much of her life ahead of her, while I … I have nothing left.

I could say that. But it would be a lie. Well, not a _lie,_ necessarily, but certainly not the whole truth. Because the truth is, I'd been thinking about volunteering long before her name was called. I'd been toying with the idea all year. The girl – and the resemblance between her and Rosalie – that was just the last straw. The tipping point. The scales had already begun to lean in that direction.

Ever since Aubrey died, I … well, things haven't been the same. I guess that's obvious, but she was the last friend I had. Everyone I've ever been close to has died. And everyone else in the district … they just moved on. Went on with their lives, as if nothing had happened. As if twenty-three children hadn't just died for the entertainment of the Capitol. At best, they ignored what had happened in the Games.

At worst, they condoned it. Sure, it was terrible, they would say, but the Capitol could have done worse. Two children a year? A small price to pay, in the end, for peace. Maybe they were just saying it to please the Capitol, or any Peacekeepers who might have been listening. Or maybe they meant it. Maybe they truly believed that the Games were a better option than whatever else the Capitol might have cooked up.

And maybe the Games aren't the absolute _worst_ thing that could happen, but that doesn't make them right. That doesn't excuse the fact that twenty-three children were murdered. That they stole my friend from me. That they tore Colt away from his family. I see his family every now and again around the district. They seem like good people. But I don't dare let them get close.

Everyone who gets close to me pays the price.

At first, I ignored the people who said that the Games weren't the worst thing that could happen. The ones who seemed eager to get back to their normal lives. The people who would whisper that this is just the way things are now, and the sooner we accept it, the better. But the voices became too loud, too persistent, to ignore.

So I fought back – just like we did during the rebellion. When I heard people talking in the streets, I would speak up. Confront them. Argue. I got into dozens of heated arguments, and more than a few brawls. I earned my fair share of lashes from the Peacekeepers. Most of them know me by name. But none of them came close to killing me – or even threatened to. They know there's nothing I can really do. When it comes down to it, I'm powerless.

But not completely. I can still do this. I can still save Olivia's life. I can deny them the pleasure of seeing a twelve-year-old slaughtered for their entertainment. And I can get at least some small piece of revenge. Revenge for my family. For my parents, my brothers, my little sister. For Aubrey. For Colt and his family. I don't know exactly what I plan to do once I'm in the Games – I really haven't thought it through that far – but I do know that there's nothing else they can do to me. Nothing else they can take from me.

I have nothing to lose.

Darrin's family is still saying goodbye when the door opens, and Olivia peeks her head in, followed by her family. Two younger sisters. An older brother. Her parents. Their eyes are full of gratitude and relief, and, in this moment, I know I've made the right decision. Whether I made it for the right reasons … well, maybe that's not so important. This little girl is going to live. Her family is going to stay together, rather than the Games tearing them apart. They get to live their lives in peace – or, at least, as much peace as anyone in the districts can ask for.

"Thank you," Olivia says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "For saving my life. I … I don't know how I can repay you."

She can't. There's nothing she can do. Nothing anyone can do. I shake my head. "Just stay alive. That's repayment enough. Live your life, and don't worry about mine. Can you do that?"

She nods a little. I pull the little girl into a hug. She's safe. For now, that's good enough.

Then, almost as soon as they came, they're gone – along with Darrin's family. Darrin shakes his head. "Now what? We just wait here?"

I can't help a scoff. "You're really that eager to get going?"

Darrin shrugs. "I don't think anyone else is coming for me. You?"

"I wasn't even expecting them," I admit.

Darrin chuckles a little. "What, you volunteered for her and you thought she wouldn't even come to say thank you? That wouldn't be very nice."

No. No, it wouldn't. But I stopped expecting people to be nice a long time ago. I stopped expecting the _world_ to be nice. "Life isn't nice," I spit back. "The sooner you learn that, the longer you'll last in the Games."

But the boy is undeterred. "What _you_ did was nice. Volunteering for that little girl – that was nice, wasn't it?"

I don't know if _nice_ is the word I would use. But I'm not in the mood to argue with him, so I nod along. "So why wouldn't you expect something nice in return?"

That's not how it works. That's not how _anything_ works. If you do something nice, you don't get nice things back. All you get is more people who take advantage of you. I don't know how he made it through the war without learning that. And I don't know whether to envy him or feel sorry for him. Because he's about to learn his lesson in the worst possible way.

"I didn't do it to be nice." My voice is harsher than I intended, but maybe it's better that he hears it now. Better for him not to entertain any delusions that I'm going to help him. That we're going to be a team, the way Aubrey and Colt were last year. "I don't have anything left. They took it all from me. And now … now they're going to pay. They're _all_ going to pay." I shake my head. "So if you have any sense at all, you'll stay the hell away from me."

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

Six times. That's how many times my name is in the reaping bowl today. Once because I'm twelve, and five times because I took tesserae – for myself, both my parents, and my two little brothers. Six times. That's more than others who are three or four years older than me. There are seventeen-year-olds who only have their names in the bowl the required six times for their age.

But there aren't many of them. Things aren't exactly rosy anywhere in Panem – or so I've gathered from the little we heard about the other districts during last year's Games – but the outer districts were hit particularly hard by the war. Everyone needed food during the war, so forces on both sides were pressuring Nine, Ten, and Eleven to produce more for their side. Capitol forces came to raid the fields and collect what little we'd managed to grow, but so did the rebels. Each side took as much as they could, not wanting to leave anything for the enemy when they inevitably passed through.

Meanwhile, the people starved. _We_ starved. While my father was off playing soldier – that's what mother calls it – the four of us learned to live without. We made do with what little we had. We scrounged and scavenged for what little we could find. We begged and we bartered and worked as hard as we could, because that's what we had to do in order to survive.

He didn't have it much better, of course. He was on the front lines for most of the war. He was lucky. He came back. But he's never been the same. There are days when he doesn't leave his bed. Days when mother and I have to cover for him, despite the fact that both of us are already worn thin trying to put food on the table. Mitchell and Bernard help as much as they can, but they're only eight and six. There's only so much they can do.

There's only so much _I_ can do. Mother keeps reminding me of that. Telling me that I'm only twelve, that I'm supposed to have time to play and be a _child_. But there's never time. When I'm not working, I'm watching out for my brothers. When I'm not doing that, I'm taking care of father. I don't have _time_ for fun. I don't even have time for school.

But I do my best not to complain. Because I know there are families that have it worse. Families who lost one or both parents during the war. Kids my age who have been left to care for their siblings alone. At least I have my mother. No matter what happens, we have each other. And, as hard as it's been, we've managed to get by.

The tesserae helps. It's helped keep us from starving to death. Mother didn't want me to take it at first, when the Capitol offered. But then we hit a rough patch. Father started getting worse. He missed several days of work. We didn't have enough. She never asked me to put my name in the bowl. She didn't have to. I'm twelve. I may not be old enough to do everything, but I'm old enough to do this. Old enough to take this risk, if it means helping take care of my family.

Besides, when you really think about it – when you do the math – six isn't all that much. It's not like I'm the only one who's taken tesserae. Far from it. Most of my friends do. When they get older, Mitchell and Bernard probably will, too. Because even though it increases the risk, that risk is still so small. My name is in the bowl six times. Six times out of thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. What are the chances that they'll really pick me?

I hold Mitchell and Bernard tighter as the five of us make our way to the district square. There's still a chance, however small. A chance that my name will be chosen. That I'll be taken from them. A chance that I'll die in the Games, and there won't be a thing that they – or anyone else – can do about it.

There's nothing that _I_ can do about it, either, of course. And that's the worst part: the feeling of helplessness as I leave my family behind and take my place with the other twelve-year-olds. Last year, I was too young for the reaping. This year, I'm taking the same risk as every other teenager in the district. I don't want to. None of us want to. We just want to go on with our lives. But two of us won't have that option.

I'm not kidding myself. Last year, our tributes were a crippled boy and a girl a few years older than me. The girl died within the first few minutes of the Games, the boy on the first night. They placed 21st and 19th. What makes me think I would do any better than that? What makes me think _anyone_ from District Eleven would do any better than that?

Our escort, Lucius, doesn't seem particularly optimistic, either. He's scowling as he takes the stage, and only manages to deliver a short speech before heading for the reaping bowls almost immediately. I clench my fists tightly at my side. Maybe he's got the right idea. Get this over with, so the rest of us can go back to our lives. Just get it over with. Just…

"Phoebe Linden," he drones, clearly knowing better than to think anyone will be thrilled at the prospect of their name being called. And I'm not. I … I can't move. For a moment, I freeze. I can feel my hands shaking. I clench them tighter. I can't just stand here. That's not what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to move.

I'm supposed to go.

Okay. One step. Then another. I pass silently through the crowd. Some of them are staring. Some look away. None of them make a move to help me. Of course they don't. Would I, if someone else's name had been called?

I'll never know, because it was me. He chose _me_. It's not fair. My name was only in there six times. Six slips, out of thousands. I swallow hard, fighting back the urge to vomit as I approach the stage. Everything seems to be spinning. But I know it's not. It's just my fear. It's just in my head.

But that doesn't make it any better. Lucius scowls at me as I take my place silently beside him. I'm not what he was expecting. Or, at least, not what he was hoping for. He was hoping for tributes who would do better this year. Not … well, not a skinny little twelve-year-old.

But the boy last year – the boy who won – he wasn't that much older than me. He was thirteen. He was small. He was starving. If he could do it, then maybe … maybe …

I take a few deep breaths as Lucius approaches the second bowl. Okay. Okay, maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I can do this. And if I win, then my family … they'll never go hungry again. Mitchell and Bernard can grow up not having to worry about when their next meal might be. They can have a childhood. The childhood I never had.

I spent the last few years wishing I could be a little kid again. Wishing everything could be the way it used to. It's too late for me to have that myself. But if I can win that for them…

But that … that only happens if I win. If I survive. If I fight. If I kill enough of the others to come home.

One thing at a time. I won't be going into the Games alone. Lucius reaches into the second bowl and draws a slip of paper. "Orville Blanchard."

The seventeen-year-old section stirs, but the boy barely has time to take a step forward before a voice interrupts. "Stop! I volunteer!" A boy races forward out of the fifteen-year-old section, bounding up to the stage with a fierce look in his eyes.

He's big – not particularly tall, but sturdy and muscular. Lucius can't hide a smile. "What's your name, son?"

"Mantle Evan Grimes."

"And what brings you up here, Mantle?"

Mantle hesitates for a moment. He wasn't expecting anyone to question his reasons. But Lucius is clearly just as curious as the rest of us. What would make anyone want to _volunteer_ for the Games? After a moment, Mantle shrugs. "I figured if some scrawny kid from One can win, I've got a pretty good chance, right?"

Maybe. Maybe he does. He's pretty strong, in any case. But as he turns towards me and holds out his hand, I catch a glimpse of something else. A bruise on his chin. Was he in a fight? Is he trying to get away from someone? Is that why he's here? What could be so terrible that he thinks fighting twenty-three other teenagers to the death is a better option?

I take his hand and shake it. It doesn't matter why he's here. Or why I'm here. We're both here now. We're both going into the Games. And, at best, only one of us can come out again. But as I glance back out at the crowd, it's obvious who they think has the better chance. He's older. He's stronger. He volunteered. I swallow back my tears as we're led to the Justice Building. Maybe it's selfish, but … well, I wish someone had volunteered for me.

* * *

 **Mantle Grimes, 15  
** **District Eleven**

There's a part of me that wishes I could have volunteered for her, instead. As we're led away to the Justice Building, Phoebe is still shaking. She's trying not to. She's trying to be brave. To be strong. And I can't help but admire that. But the fact is, she's twelve. She's not getting out of this alive.

And I might not, either. For all my bravado at the reaping – all my talk about having a better chance than the kid who won last year – it hasn't escaped my attention that I might die. That tributes who were both older and stronger than me perished in the arena last year. Twenty-three of them. Some older, some younger. Some prepared, some not. Only one tribute came out alive, and it wasn't the one anyone expected.

But that doesn't matter. Honestly, it doesn't. Because no matter which way things go – no matter whether I live or die – my life will never be the same. Things will never go back to the way they were. And that's _good_. Because the way they were – the way they _are_ – is a living hell.

It all started with the war. Not directly, though. Sure, I knew people who died. Everyone did. But my family stayed out of it, thanks to my sister, Morning. She was beautiful. Kind. Willing to sacrifice herself to keep us out of danger. She was married off to some pompous general in the Capitol, and, in return, we were left alone. We were safe.

Safe from the Capitol, at least. Our father … well, he didn't take the marriage well at all. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do to the man who had stolen his daughter away. So he turned to drink. And drink turned him into a monster. It started with my mother, but I soon became his favorite target, instead, and started to take the brunt of his beatings.

The war ended. But the drinking didn't. While everyone around us was trying to go back to their normal lives, mine was getting worse. I went back to school. Went to work. Anything to avoid going home. But, at the end of the day, he was always there, waiting for me.

I thought about leaving. About running away. But he would find me. He always finds me. Or he would go back to taking his rage out on my mother, instead. But if I win the Games, I'll be able to protect her. I can keep her safe. I can keep myself safe. But only if I win. If I lose…

If I lose, then I die. And it won't be my problem anymore. _He_ won't be my problem anymore. And, at the very least, I'll have the chance to do to others what he's been doing to me for years. And you know what? No one will be able to criticize me for it. No one will say that what I'm doing is wrong. Because that's what we're _supposed_ to do. We're supposed to kill each other. We're supposed to tear each other to pieces and beat each other into a pulp. If that's what the Capitol wants to see, then that's what I'll give them.

But first I have to get there. And that means making it through the next few minutes. There's a part of me that wishes I could tell the Peacekeepers _not_ to let anyone come and see me. To just take me to the train and get it over with. But it isn't _all_ of them that I don't want to see. Just my father. My mother, my sister, my brother – I owe it to them to say goodbye. Maybe even to try to explain…

No. No, I don't owe them an explanation. Certainly not with my father nearby. If I survive, then I'll explain. I'll tell the whole district exactly what sort of monster he is. Then he'll get exactly what he deserves. And if I die … well, maybe that'll be enough to satisfy him. That's what he wanted, wasn't it? To punish me? What could be more of a punishment than death?

Plenty of things, I suppose. But my thoughts are interrupted as the door opens and Phoebe's family pours in, followed by my own. We've positioned ourselves on opposite sides of the room to try to give each other a little privacy, but I can still hear them crying. Talking in whispers. Trying to tell her she has a chance.

My own family is silent. There are tears in my mother's eyes. My brother Lester is shaking his head. My sister Sully is trying not to cry. And my father…

I didn't think there could be anything worse than his fists. But the way he's _looking_ at me now. It's not quite anger, not quite disappointment. It's almost disgust. "How could you do this?" His voice is cold and sharp. "After everything this family has sacrificed to keep you safe, _this_ is how you repay us? By throwing your life away? You ungrateful little swine."

He raises his fist, and I flinch. But he doesn't strike. Maybe he doesn't want to make a bad impression in front of Phoebe's family. Maybe he just wants to make sure that I'm not too injured to take part in the Games. To make sure I'll still have a chance of coming home to…

To what? Does he really think that if I make it home, he can go right back to beating me? No. No, if I come home, he can never hurt me again. The Capitol will make sure of that. No. No, _I'll_ make sure of that. If he _does_ try to hurt me, no one will fault a Victor for fighting back. For striking him. Maybe even for _killing_ him.

I wrap my arms around my brother and sister. I'm getting ahead of myself. First, I have to _win_. I have to fight. To kill. But that won't be a problem. I'm used to blood. I'm used to pain. Last year, during the Games, I had a broken nose – courtesy of my father. I saw all the blood on the screen and I … I realized that I could do that. I could fight. I could kill. Probably a lot easier than most of those kids on the screen.

Maybe that's when I decided, really. When I knew I would be the one going into the Games. I didn't mean for it to be this year. But when the reaping started, I just … I couldn't wait another year or two. Couldn't take another year of this before claiming my escape. So either I'm going to win this year … or I'm going to die. There is no middle ground.

Maybe there never was. Maybe it's all been leading to this. And maybe … maybe that's okay. Maybe this is the way things are supposed to be. Maybe this is the best way things could have turned out after…

My father is still talking. But I can barely hear him. After today, nothing he says will matter. Either I'll see him again as a Victor, or I'll never have to see him again. Right now, either result would be satisfying enough.

Finally, the Peacekeepers come to take our families away. I breathe a sigh of relief once they're gone, then glance over at Phoebe, who's trying to hide her tears. I shake my head as I take a seat beside her. "Don't let them see you cry."

She looks up, startled. "What?"

"Crying won't make it any better." That's one of the first things I learned. The first time my father beat me, I cried. And the second. And the third. But the beatings only got worse. So I learned to take it – silently, without crying, without complaint. And it got easier. A little. Or maybe I just got tougher. Either way, crying certainly didn't help anything.

"I know." Her voice is strained. "But—"

"But nothing. You let them see you cry, and they've won. It's what they want." I lay a hand on her shoulder. Gently. And she doesn't flinch. "Don't give them what they want. Don't _ever_ give them what they want."

Phoebe nods a little, takes a few deep breaths, dries her eyes, and then asks the obvious question. "Why are you helping me?"

I'm not sure. But there's something about her that's familiar. Maybe she reminds me of my siblings. Maybe she reminds me of _myself_. The way I used to be. Frightened. Trembling. Trying to be brave but not really knowing how. I could tell her that, I suppose. But I don't. Because that would mean revealing that _I_ used to be weak, too. That _I_ used to be afraid.

Used to be. I'm still afraid, I suppose. But not of the Games. Not of dying. And if I win, then I'll never have to be afraid of my father again. But I don't tell her that. I _can't_ tell her that. I can't tell _anyone_ that. But her words still hang in the air, waiting for an answer. _Why are you helping me?_ I shrug, leaning back in my chair. "Why not?"

* * *

 **We decided to switch things up a bit for the reapings this time. Instead of six chapters with two districts each, we'll have four chapters of three districts each. Why? Mostly because the lyrics we wanted to use for the titles were more easily split into four parts than six. (Which is also the reason we lumped all our volunteers into this chapter. Sorry?)**

 **Also because it means we'll get the reapings done in fewer chapters. (Although, really, since the chapters are longer, it's the same amount of writing either way. But it _feels_ shorter.) And, as you probably noticed by now (unless you jumped down here to read the note first), the reapings aren't going in district order.**

 **In other news, the tribute page is up on the blog! Let us know what you think, who you like, first impressions, and all that.**


	6. Tell Our Story

**Tell Our Story**

" _And when our children tell our story, they'll tell the story of tonight."_

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

 _Crack._ I brace myself as the whip strikes again, each lash stinging a little harder, cutting a little deeper, than the last. _Eight._ I clench my teeth as tightly as I can, determined not to let them hear me scream. Sometimes I manage that. Sometimes I don't. But today is reaping day. I'm not going to let them have that pleasure.

 _Nine_. One more. Above my head, my hands grip the chains that hold me to the whipping post. Breathe. Just breathe. One more. Just one more…

 _Ten._ The whip strikes one last time, deeper than before. It's all I can do to keep from crying out as the Peacekeepers undo the chains and I slip helplessly to the ground, blood dripping into the dirt around me. I lay here for a moment, shaking in pain, catching my breath. But then two hands haul me to my feet and give me a shove away from the center of the square. "Off you go, and don't let us catch you stealing again!"

 _Right._ I don't say anything, but I know their words are useless. No matter what they do – no matter how harsh the punishments – there will still be those of us who _have_ to steal in order to survive. It's not a question of if I'm going to steal again. Or even if I'm going to get caught. It's just a question of _when_.

I stumble into an alleyway and sink down onto the hard cobblestones, pulling my rags tighter around me. It doesn't help. The back of my shirt has been torn clean open. And I don't have anything else. I curl up close to the wall, my knees tucked to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. Trying to keep warm in the frigid morning air. Trying to ignore the shooting pain in my back.

"Charlotte!" The voice startles me, but I still don't move. I _can't_ move. "Are you all right?" Murphy quickly kneels down beside me. "What happened?"

"Peacekeepers," I mutter. He doesn't need any more explanation than that. The state of my back is explanation enough.

He grabs an overturned trash can lid, filled with rainwater from last night, and drags it over beside me. "Take off your shirt."

Normally, I'd object to being babied. Or at least hesitate to take my shirt off in front of him. But I'm too tired – and in too much pain – to argue. I slip off what's left of my shirt, and he dips the fabric in the water. I flinch as he starts to clean my back, sending pain shooting through my body. He stops for a moment. "Sorry."

It's not his fault. I was the one who was careless enough to get caught on reaping day. But I was _hungry._ And I still am. But I know better than to ask whether he has any food. If he did, he would have offered me some – just as I would have done the same if I had something to share. We may be poor street urchins, but we're usually willing to share with each other.

Sure enough, after he's done cleaning my back, Murphy takes off his own shirt. "Trade you."

I shake my head. "For what?" The Peacekeepers took the hunk of meat I stole. I have nothing to offer him.

Murphy shrugs. "A kiss will do."

Fair enough. I give him a little peck on the cheek. He smirks and hands me his shirt. It's thin and has a few holes, but it's enough. Enough that I won't look like a complete wretch at the reaping.

Not that anyone's likely to pay much attention to me at the reaping. Unless I'm picked, of course. But even then…

Last year, there were two volunteers. Maybe the same thing will happen this year. Maybe there will be someone stupid enough – or desperate enough – to volunteer even if I _am_ chosen.

If I'm being honest, I've thought about volunteering myself. Ever since Maverick won last year, every street urchin has probably entertained the idea at one point or another. He made it look so easy. Four days in the arena, and he never had to sleep on the streets again. Never had to beg or scavenge or steal again. A year ago, he was just like me. Now…

He won. And that gives us hope, maybe. But hope isn't enough. Hope isn't going to keep us fed. He won, but it didn't really do us any good. We're still here. I could volunteer, too, of course. Risk everything in the hope of a better life. But something always stops me whenever the thought occurs to me.

Because there's a difference. A huge gap separating me from any real hope of what he has. He made it – at least in part – because the Capitol adored him. His parents died fighting for the Capitol. Mine … well, they didn't. They were two of the first to join the rebels. Two of the first to die. I was only twelve. I stayed around the rebel camp – not out of any particular loyalty, but because they were more likely to give me a little something to eat if I made myself useful.

So I did. I did what I could to be useful – as much as a young teenager could be expected to. I helped cook. I helped clean. I helped out in the field hospitals – changing bandages, cleaning up, listening to the soldiers' stories. Soldiers from both sides. I grew to hate the war, and it was a relief when it was finally over – even if it meant the Capitol won. All I wanted was to go back to a normal life.

But there was nothing to go back to. Nothing except a house that had been destroyed, a school where I was no longer welcome, friends who barely recognized me. I had no family. No one who would take me in. The community homes were already overwhelmed by younger children. I was fifteen – old enough to fend for myself. They turned me away.

I survived. Maybe my life isn't much, but I'd very much like to keep it. Murphy squeezes my hand as we head for the square. "Good luck."

"You, too." He's eighteen. This is his last year. I only have one more – after this one, that is. My name is in the bowl seven times – six because of my age and once because I took tesserae. But the way the system is set up, unless you have family members, you can only take tesserae once. It's better than nothing, but it's certainly not enough to keep me off the streets.

Hopefully, though, that means it won't be enough to send me into the Games, either. I give Murphy's hand one last squeeze as I head for the seventeen-year-old section, and he takes his place with the eighteen-year-olds. Suddenly, the crowd starts to cheer. I glance up at the stage. Our escort, Gloria, takes the stage – along with Maverick. Our Victor. The Victor of the First Hunger Games.

I should feel something. I should be glad for him, maybe – glad that he made it out. Or maybe I should be jealous – jealous of the life he has. But all I feel is … distant. What he has … it's something I can't even dream of. Something so far removed, it doesn't even seem real.

Gloria says a few words, then turns to Maverick, who says nothing. He's not much of a talker. Maybe that's for the best. It means we'll get this over with sooner. Gloria reaches into the first bowl and draws a single slip of paper. "Charlotte Jacquard."

 _Damn it._ I just can't catch a break today. Okay. Okay, just stay put for a moment. Maybe someone else will volunteer. Maybe…

But no one does. No one even moves. Maybe no one knows who I am. But the Peacekeepers know. One of them starts walking towards me. The same Peacekeeper who caught me this morning. I clench my fists. There's no way I'm going to let him have the pleasure of dragging me to the stage.

I step forward as confidently as I can. Trying to ignore the stares. People staring at my ragged clothes. The blood seeping through the back of my shirt despite Murphy's best efforts. My bare feet. My dirt-caked skin. My tangled hair.

To my surprise, Maverick takes a step forward as I take the stage, holding out his hand. I can't help staring, but I shake it as firmly as I can manage. He gives my hand a little squeeze. "Wave," he whispers. "At the crowd – wave."

I do. They cheer. I have his approval, and, for now, that's all they care about. Gloria makes her way to the other bowl and draws a name. The crowd quiets. _Just not Murphy. Anyone but Murphy._ I couldn't handle the thought of facing him in the arena.

"Ra Schintozo!" It's not a name I know, but at least it's not Murphy. He's safe. He's safe forever. But it's the eighteen-year-old section that parts for a tall, healthy-looking boy in a fancy suit and scarf. He glances around for a moment, maybe waiting – like I was – to see if someone else is going to volunteer.

But no one does. He shrugs a little and heads for the stage. Slowly. Deliberately. A smile plays on his face as he takes his place beside me and shakes Maverick's hand. Then he turns to shake mine.

I hesitate. And not just because his hand – like his arms – is covered in strange tattoos. After a moment, though, I shake his hand. The crowd cheers as he waves, a hint of a smile still resting on his lips. It's only once the crowd has left and the cameras are off that he casually wipes his hand – the hand that shook mine – on the edge of his scarf.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

At first, I thought something had gone wrong. That was the only explanation – the only possible reason why _my_ name could have been called. After all, my family coming to the reaping is only a formality. Everyone knows that even the _Capitol_ leaves the Schintozo family alone. Hell, we paid off _both_ sides during the war just to leave us in peace. I just assumed – as the rest of my family did – that our names hadn't even been entered in the drawing. The reaping was for the rebels. The poor and desperate, like my district partner. Certainly not wealthy, productive citizens. Surely the Capitol couldn't afford to lose _us_.

And yet … they _did_ call my name. So there must be a reason. A reason why _I_ was chosen. That's the only _real_ explanation. They would never leave something like that up to chance – not with a life like mine on the line. No, they meant to choose me. Or maybe the spirit inside me _meant_ for me to be chosen. Either way, that can only mean one thing: I'm meant to win. I'm meant to fight in the arena, to come back home in glory to District One. To be a symbol for our people rather than hiding from the rest of the world in our mansion, as our family has done for generations. It's time for the Schintozo family to come out of hiding.

Not that we were hiding from the world because of its dangers, of course. No, we stayed separate in order to keep ourselves pure. To protect the family traditions from outsiders. And it worked. For generations, we've been able to isolate ourselves, to live together in peace and security, only occasionally drawing an outsider or two into the fold. The family fortune and legacy have been held secure by my father, and, even before he discovered that I'd been possessed by an ancient spirit, it was assumed that the role of leadership would be passed to me, in time. And it will – once I return victorious from the Games.

But a victory in the Games also means I'll have a role in the district. I'll be their Victor. Their second Victor, of course, but also clearly a superior one. Maverick won last year, it's true, but he wasn't strong or trained or clever. He was lucky. Maybe that's why the spirit chose me. Why I was chosen for the Games. The district needs another Victor. A more worthy Victor. A Victor who can take up the mantle of both Victor and head of the Schintozo family, who can lead our district forward into a better future.

I'm getting ahead of myself, of course. First, I have to win. And that's going to take all of my concentration over the next few weeks. I can't afford to be distracted – even by my family. Clearly, they're aware of this. They come to visit, but they don't linger. Not like the boy who comes to see my district partner. They chat silently in the corner while my family stands silently at my side, laying their hands on me. Letting our family's power wash over me. It's a great privilege, an awesome responsibility. But it's one I'm more than willing to accept, if that's what the spirit wants from me.

After a few more moments, they leave. They've said nothing – and yet everything. We don't need words to communicate our meaning. I can feel their confidence, their determination, coursing through my veins. Giving me strength. Nourishing and strengthening me for what's about to come. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting everything sink in. This is real, and I'm ready for it. I'm ready for anything. I'm—

"Are you _sleeping_?" The girl is almost laughing as I open my eyes. "Do you have any _idea_ what's about to happen?"

Of course I do. And I wasn't sleeping. But it's not as if she would understand what I _was_ doing. Not as if she could comprehend the amazing power that comes with our family name. And trying to explain … no, it's not even worth the time and effort it would take. Better for her to underestimate me, to think that I know nothing. "What's about to happen?" I repeat.

She blinks. "You're kidding."

"Assume I'm not."

She shakes her head. "You're going to die – that's what's going to happen. Your pampered ass won't last five minutes in the arena."

I can't help a slight chuckle. "Why do you say that?"

"I saw you earlier – wiping your hand off after you touched me. If you can't even stand getting a little dirt on you, how are you going to handle blood?"

I nod a little, amused. She doesn't understand. I didn't wipe my hand off because I was worried about the dirt. I didn't do it because her hands were unclean. I did it because _she_ was unclean. Because all outsiders are unclean. Whatever happens in the arena – I can handle it. I have to. I have to win. I have to come back. I have to fulfill my destiny.

My destiny. I always knew I had one. I always assumed it was my destiny to shepherd our family, to make sure that we remain faithful. That would have been enough for me. But this – this is even better. Even more fulfilling. Even more … exciting.

Exciting. I hadn't expected that. But now – now that everything is finally starting to sink in – there _is_ a certain sense of excitement. Only twenty-four tributes have even been in the arena before. Only one Victor has emerged. I'll be the second. The second, but also the best. I'll be the best Victor they could ask for. The most glorious. The most—

"Forget it." The girl – Charlotte – shakes her head and starts pacing around her side of the room. She probably thought I was ignoring her. But I wasn't. I was watching. I'm _always_ watching. I can tell more about her from watching her than from actually talking to her. And it's less effort. It's so much easier to just sit back and watch. And it's so much more fun…

I didn't think it would be this much fun – interacting with other people. My parents always taught me that others were unclean. Impure. And maybe they are. Maybe Charlotte is. But that doesn't make it any less entertaining to watch her pace back and forth, trying to hide the fact that she's nervous. Anxious. Trying to assuage her own fears by pretending that I'm even less prepared than she is.

Because, clearly, she _is_ unprepared. She's been living on the streets – that much is obvious – and maybe that's prepared her to deal with hunger, but it hasn't prepared her to fight. Physically, she's weak. Malnourished. But, more importantly, she lacks confidence. She's already convinced that she doesn't have a chance. But why? Certainly she doesn't stand a chance in a fair fight against someone healthy like me, but most people in her position would try to convince themselves otherwise. Maverick won last year, after all, and he wasn't any better off than she is.

It shouldn't matter, of course. I shouldn't care why she's already given up. But I do, and I can't really explain why. It's a mystery. A puzzle. One that I can't help wanting to explore, to solve. So I keep watching, and she keeps pacing, glancing over at me every now and then – more and more irritated each time. She's relieved when the door finally opens, revealing Maverick and Gloria, arriving to take us to the train.

"So you're coming with us?" Charlotte asks as they lead us away.

Maverick nods a little. "Mentor – I'm here to … to mentor. To help. Help keep you alive."

Charlotte seems relieved by the thought. Maybe she was worried about having to be alone with me. Maybe she already sees Maverick as a kindred spirit. Someone who made it out, who managed to escape the life she's trapped in. The life she's _been_ trapped in. Because that life is over. _Her_ life is over. It's only a matter of time.

But mine – my real life – is just beginning. Everything I've done so far, everything I've been taught – it's all been building up to this. Leading me here. Preparing me for what has to be done. Physically, I'm healthy – and in as good condition as could be expected. Mentally, I'm more than prepared for what has to be done. While others may balk at the thought of taking a life, I know the truth. Their lives were never going to amount to much, anyway. They were never going to make a difference. They were never going to be remembered.

But me? No, they'll tell my story for generations after I finally die. But that's not going to be for a long, long while. I glance over at my companions as we board the train, ready to leave District One. But not forever. Not even for long. A few weeks, and I'll be back. And nothing in our district will ever be the same.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

The weather still hasn't cleared up. I wrap Franklin's coat a little tighter as the two of us head for the square. He gives my shoulder a squeeze. "You okay?"

I can't help a smirk. "Sure. I might be picked for a death match in a few minutes, but, other than that, everything's just peachy."

My uncle rolls his eyes. "Point taken. But they ain't gonna pick you, kid. More likely than not, they'll pick some poor fool who took the damn tesserae they offered, put their name in extra times because they wanted a little more food."

He's probably right. Maybe we aren't rich, the pair of us, but we've always managed to get by. Other businesses may have fallen in and out of favor during the war, but people will always need food, and Uncle Franklin's one of the best fishermen around. It may not be the most prestigious way to make a living, but at least it's stable. _He's_ always been stable. That's probably the reason I was sent to live with him when everything else fell apart.

Fell apart. That's a nice way of putting it. Makes it sounds like all of Panem just up and decided to fall to pieces on its own. No. No, it was the war that _tore_ it all apart. People like to blame one side or the other, without realizing that by the end of the war, they were all the same. The soldiers were all the same. Cold, hungry, desperate to do anything – _anything_ – that might bring the war to an end a little sooner.

It makes me wonder, sometimes, how my family turned out. The rest of my family, that is. Uncle Franklin stayed out of the fighting, but the rest of them … well, they were just as divided as the rest of the country. My mother and my brother, Jarred, joined up with the rebels almost immediately, taken in by their promise of freedom and prosperity. My father and my sister Jemima weren't so starry-eyed. They knew the Capitol would eventually win, and figured it was better for our family – whatever was left of it – if they proved their loyalty. So they enlisted with the Capitol forces.

And me? I was nine when the war started. So I was shipped off to live with my uncle on the opposite side of the district. At the time, I resented him. Well, not _him_ necessarily, but all my anger about being separated from my friends, about my family turning on each other, about my whole world falling apart – I directed it at him, because he was the only one who was there.

And he stayed there. He's been the only thing in my life that's been certain. Constant. At first, I hated him for it. Hated that he could be so calm and in control while everything else was going up in smoke. I envied him, but, at the same time, part of me wished he would … care.

But I finally figured it out. He _does_ care – just not about _everything._ So many people have an opinion on absolutely everything, and will fight tooth and nail to defend every little detail of their beliefs. That's not how Franklin sees the world. He has a few things he cares about: himself, me, and his fishing business – and not necessarily in that order. As long as those three things are fine, the rest of Panem can go to hell for all he cares.

And I guess that's sort of rubbed off on me. Whether that's good or bad, I'm not sure, but it's the way things are now. Maybe the way they've always been – or just they way they _have_ to be, in order for people to stay sane. Sure, what's about to happen today is terrible. Two poor teenagers are about to be picked to fight to the death – and that's just here in District Four. Twenty-four tributes are going in. Only one is coming out.

But, if I'm being honest, as long as it's not me, I don't really care. I _can't_ care. If I start caring about all of them – about every single thing that's wrong with Panem – I'll go nuts. Or, worse, I'll get myself killed fighting someone else's war, like my family did.

Franklin claps me on the back as we finally reach the square. "Good luck."

I nod and disappear into the crowd. More and more people arrive, streaming into the square. There are so many of us. Chances are, in a few minutes, I'll be heading home, laughing along with Franklin, maybe making a joke about how the tributes can't _possibly_ do worse than last year. Last year, they were the first two to die. It's not hard to do better than that.

Our escort, too, won't have to try too hard to top last year's. They tried to hush up what happened to Sylvia, but everyone knows Memphis killed her on the train. But our new one looks a bit tougher. Tall, stocky, watching us with steely eyes. Finally, she takes a step towards the microphone. "Hello, District Four! I'm June Pennington, and I'm here to make sure things go a little better this year."

I can't help it. I laugh. A few of the other teens turn and look, but I don't care. This'll all be over soon, anyway. June heads for the first reaping bowl, reaches in, and draws a name. "Lexi Concord."

It's a moment before anyone moves. Then the section in front of me – the fifteen-year-old section – stirs a little. A girl takes a step forward. Then another. Shakily. Hesitantly. As if waiting for something. Maybe waiting for someone to volunteer.

It wouldn't be out of the question, I suppose. Memphis volunteered last year. But everyone remembers what happened to him. He was the first to die. Not because he volunteered, of course, but because of the same rashness. He stepped off his pedestal at the start of the Games. He did something stupid. No one's going to do the same thing now.

The girl – Lexi – is still a bit wobbly, still fighting not to cry, as she takes the stage. June offers her a hand up the stairs, and the girl takes it without question. I can't help a scoff. If she can't even make it up some stairs on her own, how long is she going to last in the arena? But that's not my problem. None of it is my problem.

Unless June picks me next, of course. She finally manages to untangle herself from Lexi and make her way over to the second bowl. No fuss. No flourish. She just reaches in, draws the first slip her fingers find, and pulls it out. "Jethro Brackish."

It's a moment before I realize I'm laughing. It's even longer before I finally manage to step forward out of the crowd, nearly doubled over with laughter. Everyone is staring, but I don't care. It's _hilarious_. I don't know why, but the sudden realization that it didn't even _matter_ that I didn't take tesserae, that it made no difference that my name was only in the bowl three times – the idea that there's _nothing_ I could do to escape this – it's … well, it's almost freeing. There's no one for me to blame. No one except my own bad luck.

June eyes me curiously as I take the stage. I raise my hand to wave, but the wave quickly turns into a mocking salute. "Well, let's hope you're right about this being better than last year," I manage between bursts of laughter.

June nods back, completely unfazed. "Let's hope so."

"And you." I turn to my district partner, Lexi, who's staring at me, completely befuddled. "I suppose congratulations are in order." I shake her hand heartily. "Let's make this better than last year." I turn back to the crowd, arms raised. "Better than last year! Better than last year!"

To my surprise, a few of them take up the cry. The rest start applauding. Weird. Really weird. But I'll take it. Maybe it'll get the Capitol's attention. I turn back to Lexi, who's actually smiling a little, enjoying the applause. "Thank you," she whispers.

I shrug a little. "Don't thank me. I'll be trying to kill you in a few days, remember." I grin as Lexi takes a little step back. June shakes her head. But who cares what she thinks? Who cares what _any_ of them think? No one asked me what I thought. Whether I wanted to be part of a fight to the death. No one asked me if I wanted to be part of their little game. So they don't get any say in how I play it.

* * *

 **Lexi Concord, 15  
** **District Four**

Jethro is still chuckling to himself as we're led away. Still laughing about the fact that we're going to be killing each other. But the Capitol doesn't _really_ expect us to kill each other … do they? Sure, the tributes last year _seemed_ like they died, but that can't be what really happened. Can it? No. No, that would cause outrage – even in the Capitol. It must have been a trick. An illusion. Sure, the tributes ended up separated from their families – and that's sad – but they're still alive somewhere. Aren't they?

But Jethro doesn't seem to think so. He's been fooled – just like the rest of them. He finally stops laughing as we enter the Justice Building, and a man comes to see him. His father, probably, or maybe an uncle. My own family is close behind. My mother and my brother Justin. My father was killed during the war, caught in the crossfire between the rebels and the loyalists.

Mother wraps her arms around me, holding me tight. I can feel Justin's hand on my shoulder. Why are they so upset? Mother's the one who told me about the Games in the first place – the one who told me that it was okay, that the tributes didn't _really_ die. I guess she's just upset that we'll be separated if I don't win. That makes sense, I suppose. I don't want to leave them, either. But it could always be worse.

"Lexi?" Mother's voice is full of tears. "Lexi, you have to listen to me."

I try to smile a little. For her. "I know, mother. I'll try to win. I promise."

"Lexi, what I told you last year about the Games—"

"I know, I know, no one's _really_ going to die, but I still want to be able to come home and—"

"Lexi, what I said … it wasn't exactly true."

What?

There are tears in her eyes as she continues. "I was trying to protect you. I thought that if … if you thought it was all a trick … then you wouldn't be upset. You wouldn't be afraid. I never thought you'd be reaped. Maybe I should have expected it, but…"

"Why would you have expected it?" The words slip out before I even realize what she's said. The Games are _real_. People are going to die. But that's not even the worst part. She lied to me. My own mother lied to me. And Justin – did he know? If that wasn't true, what else have they been lying about?

Mother shakes her head. "Because of your father."

I swallow hard against the lump that's forming in my throat. What _about_ my father? He was killed during the war, but she always said that he was just caught in the crossfire. That he hadn't actually been involved in the fighting. But if she was lying about the Games…

It's Justin who answers. "Lexi, he was … he was a rebel. One of the _leaders_ of the rebellion. Not everyone knew, and we tried to keep it quiet, but … but if that's why the Capitol picked you…"

He lets that hang in the air for a moment. If that's why the Capitol picked me, then … what? If they've decided I'm a rebel, then what's going to happen to me? We all saw what happened to the rebels in the arena last year. Memphis. Silver. Aubrey. They all died. Memphis stepped off his pedestal at the beginning. I assumed they had taken him out of the Games early because he would eliminate too many of the others quickly. I thought he was lucky, because he didn't have to fight. But if he actually died…

And Aubrey. She was killed by the girl from Two, but, before that, she was injured by a tree that fell in a storm. Did the Capitol cause that, too? And Silver … she was killed by Maverick, who ended up winning. If the Capitol really _was_ targeting rebels and showing favor to loyalists, does that make me a target? Does that mean that I'm already as good as dead?

But none of that matters right now. Not really. Because what they just said … it changes everything else. My father wasn't just killed in the war. He died fighting the Capitol. And the rest of my family repaid his memory by trying to erase it. Trying to ignore what he did, to silence his memory. I shake my head as my mother tries to pull me closer. "How could you? How could you lie to me like that?"

"I was trying to protect you."

"From _what?_ "

"From what other people might say, if they knew. From what you might do, if you knew that the Capitol was responsible for your father's death. But none of that matters now, because—"

"Because I'm going to die! Is that it? Now that I'm actually going to be the one paying the price, _now_ I need to know?"

"Yes! Because otherwise you might not have … you might not have killed. You might have just waited – waited for the Gamemakers to take the other tribute out of the Games, and they might have … might have killed you while you were waiting. If that had happened – if you'd died because of what we told you – we couldn't have lived with that."

I shake my head. "But you could live with lying to me in the first place? It's not _fair_."

"Of course it's not. Nothing is." Mother presses something into my palm. It's a small pendant – two swords forming the shape of a cross. "It was your father's," she explains. "Take it with you. It'll keep you safe."

"What do you expect me to do – stab someone with it?"

She shakes her head. "That's not what I meant. I just meant that it could be—"

"What? A good luck charm? How lucky could it be? It was father's, and he's _dead_!" I'm screaming now, but it doesn't matter. At least, it doesn't matter to me. Apparently, it matters to the Peacekeepers, because the door swings open, and they start to drag my mother and Justin away. "Wait! Wait, I didn't get to—"

But I don't get to finish the sentence. They're gone. They're gone, and there's nothing more I can do. Nothing more I can say. Nothing but turn the pendent over in my hands and try my best not to listen to Jethro and his visitor. They're talking in whispers, as if they're worried I might overhear something. But they probably heard our entire conversation. He must think I'm so stupid.

Finally, the man beside Jethro leaves, patting him on the back with a simple, "Try not to die, kid." Jethro smiles fondly back – a simple smile that fills me with envy. I used to think that my family was that simple. That we loved each other. Trusted each other. That we would never lie to each other. I was wrong.

I was wrong about everything.

Jethro can't hide a smirk. "Family drama?"

"More than I knew," I admit. "You?"

He shrugs. "Not enough family left to _have_ family drama. Uncle Franklin and I … we make it work together."

I shake my head. "Sounds nice." And it does. Things used to be so simple. I just want to go back – back to what I knew a few hours ago. What I thought I knew. But it would still be a lie. Whether I knew it or not, everything I thought I knew was … wrong.

"I guess it is," Jethro agrees. "He's a bit of a grouch, but … well, family is family, right?"

Family is family. I look away as tears start to come to my eyes again. No matter what they may have said – no matter what lies they may have told me – my family still loves me. And I just spent what might very well be my last few minutes with them yelling. Shouting at them.

I clutch my father's pendent tightly. No. No, these _won't_ be my last few moments with them. They can't be. I won't let them. I won't let their lies stop me from winning. I won't let the _Capitol_ stop me from winning. They already took my father – even though I didn't know it at the time. They already tore my family apart. Forced them to lie to me. They don't get to take any more. I won't let them. I can't let them.

"I'm going to win this." I don't even realize until the words leave my mouth that I've said them out loud. But it feels good to say it. It almost makes it sound possible.

Jethro leans back in his chair. "That's the spirit. Keep telling yourself that."

He says it with a sarcastic smirk, but he's right. That's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to keep telling myself to win until I believe it – the same way I believed what my mother told me about the Games. I'm going to repeat it to myself until either it happens, or I die. Those are the only two options now. Win or lose. Win or die. Come home to my mother and my brother … or join my father.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

There's a chill in the air today. Not to be superstitious or anything – it's just cold, and more than a little damp. I should probably be grateful that I'm not on the streets. That I'm not searching for shelter every night or huddling in a doorway to keep warm. I'm one of the lucky ones – or, at least, everyone keeps trying to tell me. My father's always been able to make enough money – some honestly, some not – for us to get by.

It helps that he didn't take sides during the war, I suppose. Or, rather, that he was willing to take _both_ sides when it suited him. He didn't get involved in the politics of it all, but he was willing to strike a bargain with anyone – for a price. He taught my everything he knows. Taught me to put on a smile and be polite. Taught me when to get involved in other people's business and when to stay out of it, how to recognize a good deal, how to read a customer. He taught me not to care.

But the truth is … well, it's a bit more complicated than that. Because I _did_ care. Not about the rebellion or their rhetoric about freedom and justice and equality. I know better than that. Better than to be taken in by their promises and speeches. Even if they managed to overthrow the Capitol … then what? What were they planning to put in its place?

Most of them probably didn't think that far, of course. They just figured that once the Capitol was gone, everything would work out on its own. But life doesn't work like that. No, if the Capitol were gone, something else would take its place. Because the problem with the Capitol isn't that the people there are fundamentally different. It's that they have power. But if the power were taken away from them, it would have to go _somewhere._ To some _one_. Power doesn't disappear. It simply changes hands.

And it changes _people_. Whoever – or whatever – ended up replacing the Capitol would probably end up being just as bad, in the end. Just as power-hungry. Just as corrupt. No matter how good their intentions at the start, a government still has to be able to get things _done_. And, however much we may hate the Capitol in the districts, the hard truth is that they're very good at getting things done.

So how did I get involved in the rebellion? How did I end up stealing and smuggling what supplies I could to the troops in our district? Not because I cared about them and their ideals … but because I cared for Ramsey. We met one day when I was running errands for my father in the … seedier part of District Twelve. She was exciting. Mysterious. Involved with all the wrong people – gangsters, thieves, and all other manner of riffraff. Maybe she reminded me of my father.

In any case, we hit it off. We quickly became friends, and slowly became more than that. When she asked me to help her smuggle supplies for the rebels, I couldn't say no.

No. No, I _could_ have said no. And that's the thing. I could have – maybe even _should_ have – said no. There was nothing in it for me. Nothing to gain. This wasn't like one of my father's deals. We were doing the rebels a favor, and getting nothing in return. It went against everything my father had ever taught me.

And it felt _good_. Making a choice because it was what _felt_ good, rather than because it would get me something in return – it made me feel alive. _She_ made me feel alive. She still does. The war may be over – has been for two years now – but that feeling, the feeling I get when I'm with her … it's just as strong as ever.

Ramsey slips her hand into mine as we make our way to the district square. It's her last year. I have one more, after this one. Neither of us took tesserae. My name is in the bowl six times, hers seven. That sounds like a lot – especially compared to the twelve-year-olds who have their name in once – but the numbers don't really mean much, in the end. Last year, they picked an eighteen-year-old boy and a twelve-year-old girl. Anyone can be picked. Anyone.

But they did have something in common. The girl's father was involved in the rebellion. The boy, I learned from Ramsey, had been responsible for a large amount of anti-Capitol graffiti during the war. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. After all, it would be hard to find someone in District Twelve who _wasn't_ connected to the rebellion in some way or another. But the thought is still there, lingering in the back of my mind. If they _are_ specifically targeting rebels…

Then there are still plenty of others. Plenty of others who were more involved. More invested. More _important_ to the rebellion than I was. If they're choosing rebels in order to prove a point, there are better choices. Then again, there were probably better choices than the twelve-year-old they chose last year, too.

So just because they may not be specifically targeting me doesn't mean I'm safe. And it doesn't mean Ramsey's safe. I squeeze her hand a little as we take our places. I join her in the eighteen-year-old section because … well, why not? Who's checking?

Certainly not our escort, Grant, who doesn't seem like he wants to be here at all. Not that anyone can really blame him for that. None of _us_ want to be here, either. But it does seem a bit odd that someone who clearly hates the districts so much would volunteer to be an escort. They can't be paying them _that_ well.

Maybe it's not about money. From what I've heard, people in the Capitol have enough money, anyway – and plenty to spare. No, there it's all about influence. Prestige. Visibility. And whether he enjoys it or not, Grant is one of twelve people who can say they've had the privilege of escorting tributes to the Hunger Games. Well, _thirteen,_ technically. But does it really count if you're dead? Is it really an honor if you do your job so badly that you get killed by one of the kids you were supposed to escort?

Not that anyone in District Twelve is likely to try the same thing. No, we know better. We've learned. The crowd grows silent as Grant heads for the first bowl. _Just not me. Not me, and not Ramsey_. As long as it isn't either of us, it doesn't matter. Someone else. _Anyone_ else.

Grant yawns a little. "Ivone Eister, come on up."

I freeze. A glare settles onto my face. Not because he said my name. But because of the _way_ he said it. Yawning, bored, like I wasn't worth his time. Like none of us are worth his time. Ramsey gives my hand a gentle squeeze, but I pull away and head for the stage, keeping my eyes on Grant. Glaring. Wondering if he can tell how much I hate him. How much I hate _all_ of them.

If he knows, he certainly doesn't seem to care. His expression doesn't change as I take the stage. My stare turns from him to the crowd. The other girls who are now breathing a sigh of relief because _they_ weren't chosen. I clench my hands tightly at my side. I would be doing the same thing, I know, if I hadn't been chosen. I would be grateful. I would be relieved. I wouldn't have anything to say, wouldn't have anything but a fleeting moment of pity for the poor soul who happened to be chosen.

Grant doesn't even seem to have that. There's no sympathy, no compassion in his eyes as he turns away from me and back to the second reaping bowl. I look away. It doesn't matter – not really – who he chooses. Ramsey is safe. My brother Darrel is too old. There's no one else I really care about. Grant doesn't seem any more interested than I am as he reads the boy's name. "Isaac Swarthy."

After a moment, the sixteen-year-old section parts, and a boy steps forward. Well, at least my district partner isn't a twelve-year-old. He looks fairly healthy. Reasonably strong. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Should I be hoping for a district partner who will be able to help me – someone I can take advantage of – or someone who I can safely ignore? Someone I would be able to defeat easily?

As it is, he seems to be somewhere in between. Physically, he seems capable enough. But his eyes are wide as he takes the stage. But wide with fear or rage? Is he shaking from terror or anger? I'm usually pretty good at reading people, but even I'm not sure…

 _Shake hands._ That's what the tributes did last year. Instinctively, I hold out my hand to Isaac. No harm in being polite. No harm, and possibly something to gain. That's what my father would say. He would already be looking for an angle. Some way to use this to his advantage.

Isaac takes my hand, and I shake it firmly. That's what I'm going to have to do, too. Look for every advantage. Use everything he taught me. I can't afford to think about what's right, or who I might end up hurting. And, above all, I can't afford to get attached. Not if I want to come home to the people who _actually_ matter.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

 _She doesn't matter. None of them matter. They_ can't _matter. You're going to have to kill them in a little while, anyway. You're going to have to kill them all. You may have to kill_ her _. You might as well just kill her now. She's sitting right there, with her family. It would be easy. Just wrap your hands around her neck and_ —

"Shut up, Z!" Only after I've shouted the words do I realize I've said them out loud. The girl's family turns and stares at me. At my family. My parents take a few steps to the side, positioning themselves between me and Ivone's family. But it doesn't help. The thoughts are still there. _Z_ is still there.

He's always been there. Ever since I was a child. My parents taught me – taught me how to control him. How to ignore him. How to shut him out. And it usually worked. He doesn't usually come out. Only when I'm stressed. Stressed, like having just been chosen for a fight to the death.

"It's getting harder, isn't it," my mother says worriedly. Of course it is. Did she think it would be _easy_ to control him in a life and death situation? Did she think that he would just _disappear_ while I went off to fight in the Games? No. No, I'm going to have to work even harder to control him now. It might not even be possible…

"Maybe you shouldn't try," Father says softly. "Maybe…"

I can't help flinching a little at the thought. It's nothing that hadn't occurred to me. Nothing I hadn't been thinking about ever since I heard my name called. It would be so _easy_ to give in now. To just let _Z_ take over, let him do all the dirty work. Maybe it would even keep me alive. Maybe _he_ would keep me alive.

Hell, maybe that's what he's always been _trying_ to do. He's always been violent, but what if he's just been trying to protect me. It's not like he's being _senselessly_ violent. He's only suggesting that I try to kill Ivone because we're in a fight to the death together. Killing her now … yeah, that would certainly make an impression.

But maybe the wrong _kind_ of impression. I'm not sure we're even allowed to fight before the Games actually start, let alone actually kill each other before then. Surely that's not what the Capitol wants. And if we disobey that rule – even if it's not technically a rule we've been told – then who knows what the Capitol will do.

No. No, we know. Because last year, Memphis killed his escort before the Games began. While they were on the train. And, sure, that was his _escort_. Not someone he was _supposed_ to kill eventually. But that didn't end well. He ended up getting blown up on his pedestal before the Games even started. That's not what I want. I want to have a chance…

A chance. A chance to fight. A chance to kill. Because that's the only way I'll have a chance of coming home. I know that. And _Z_ has to know that, too. Maybe he's just messing with me. Trying to prepare me. Trying to get me thinking about actually killing the people I'm going to be in the Games with, because eventually, I'll have to act on that.

 _Not now_ , I tell Z silently. _Not yet. You have to wait a little while._ Z finally goes quiet. Maybe he's figured out that I'm willing to listen. That I _have_ to be willing to listen to him if I want to survive this.

And I do want to survive this. Even if it means killing. Because everyone else in the arena is going to be trying to kill me, too. It's not like I'm going to be in there slaughtering kids who never did anything, who would never think of doing the same thing to me. No, if the Games last year taught us anything, it's that _everyone_ is willing to kill. Almost everyone in that arena ended up killing _someone_ – or at least trying to.

Even the little girl from Twelve last year. She wasn't technically trying to _kill_ the boy from Eight – the boy who ended up killing her – but she _was_ trying to steal his food, and he could have ended up starving to death if she'd taken it. So even the tributes who weren't willing – or able – to attack others outright were at least willing to _let_ them die.

Which only makes sense, I suppose. Those are the rules of the Games. Even if you don't agree with them, you have to go along with them if you want to survive. And I _do_ want to survive. Maybe my life here in Twelve hasn't always been great. But it's something. And it's something I want to come back to. And if I win…

If I win, everything will be different. I'll never need to worry about having to help provide for my family again. I'll never need to worry about _Z_ trying to tell me to kill people again. Because who would be a danger to a Victor? No, once I win, maybe they'll even figure out a way to get _rid_ of Z.

No. No, I don't know if I would want that. I've sort of gotten used to having him around, even if he is a nuisance at times. And, besides, if Z thought they were going to get rid of him once I won, I don't know if he would want to help me. And I _am_ going to need his help.

So I can't tell anyone. Can't tell them about Z. Not that I was going to, anyway. I've had plenty of practice keeping him a secret. Because if you start telling people that you hear voices, they'll think you're crazy. And I'm not crazy. Maybe _Z_ is crazy sometimes – and maybe he's suggested doing some pretty crazy things – but _I'm_ not crazy. I'm not Z. I'm not…

My mother wraps her arm around my shoulders. "Do what you have to in order to come home. We'll understand."

That's good to hear. Not that I was going to let that stop me – the idea that they might think of me as some sort of monster or something. No, I figured I'd do what I had to, come home, and then deal with the consequences. But knowing that they won't think less of me because of it … that's good. That's freeing.

Because that's one thing the Victor last year didn't have to deal with. Maverick didn't have any family. He didn't have to worry about what his family would think of him killing other tributes – other _people –_ in order to survive. And now I don't have to, either.

At least, I don't have to worry about what my family will think. I can't help the butterflies in my stomach as my family leaves and Chase enters, taking a seat beside me immediately. "Are you all right?"

I nod a little. "I think so." It's a silly question, maybe. Who could be "all right" when they were just picked for a fight to the death? But I'm doing as well as I can be, and maybe that's something…

"Just try not to…" Chase starts, but can't bring himself to finish the thought. _Try not to die._ That's what he was about to say. But even the thought of my death is too much for him. Not that I blame him. I don't know if I'd be able to handle it, either, if our positions were reversed. Strange, that the thought of _him_ dying in the Games would bother me more than the thought of my own death, but that's the sort of bond we've always had.

He slips a hand into mine. "Just try to come home."

Of course I will. Of course I'm going to try. Who wouldn't? But with those words, just like my parents, he's given me permission to do what has to be done. He won't think any less of me because of what I'm about to do in the Games. If I fight – no, _when_ I fight – I won't have to worry about what he'll think, how he'll react. When I kill, I won't have to worry about coming home to someone who thinks I'm a monster because of what I've done. He'll understand. He's always been able to understand.

"I will," I promise. "I'll do my best."

But my best … is that really going to be enough? The boy from Twelve last year – he was even older than he, and he didn't win. He made it to the final five, but then he was killed by the girl from Eight. He fought. He killed. And that still wasn't enough. What makes me think I'll be able to do any better?

I grip Chase's hand tightly. I have a reason to come home. I have _so many_ reasons to come home. Chase. My parents. My brother, Felix. Maybe if I survive – if I make it home – I'll finally have the resources to figure out what happened to my brother…

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, I have to survive. First, I have to win. Then I can worry about what happens next. Then I can worry about figuring out the rest of the story.

* * *

 **Halfway done with the reapings already! We're liking this format.**


	7. No Matter What

**No Matter What**

" _Raise a glass to freedom, something they can never take away – no matter what they tell you."_

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

 _Just like last year_. That's what I keep trying to tell myself as my sister Kara and I head for the district square, followed by our father. It'll be just like last year. We were both nervous then, too. But we both got through the reaping. Neither of us was picked. We don't really have any reason to think it'll be any different this year.

Still, it's hard to stop my hands from shaking. What if it _is_ me? What if _I'm_ the one who's picked? Or what if Kara is picked? What if we're _both_ picked? Would we have to fight each other? Have to kill each other? The thought of killing _anyone_ makes my stomach churn, but my sister … I couldn't do that.

 _Stop it._ That's not going to happen. She probably won't be picked. I probably won't be picked. The chances of either of us being chosen are slim, which makes the chances of us _both_ being chosen even smaller. My name is only in the bowl three times. Kara is three years older than me, so hers is in the bowl six times. Neither of us took tesserae. We're as safe as we can be.

Which is to say, about as safe as anyone else in the district. Safer than some. Safer than the poorer kids from larger families who have had to take out tesserae – some quite a few – in order to get by. It doesn't seem fair – the Capitol manipulating the reaping like that. Forcing the poorer children to increase their chances of being chosen. If anything, you would think they would want to choose stronger, healthier tributes. Tributes who would be better prepared.

But that's not the idea – not really. They're not trying to give us the best chance they can. They're trying to use the Games to weed out a few of the weaker, poorer, less productive citizens. It's not fair. But, really, _nothing_ the Capitol is doing is fair. Nothing about the Games is fair, so why should the reaping be?

I know better than to say that out loud, of course. I know better than to speak out against the Capitol. That's what got my mother killed. Well, that and the fact that she killed a Peacekeeper. But that was during the war. Killing someone on the other side in a war … is that really wrong?

Everything seemed so much simpler before the war. Maybe because I was younger. Maybe because it was easier to tell who was right and who was wrong. Who was good and bad. Who was a friend or enemy. Now … now it's all muddled. I thought, when my parents joined the rebellion, that that was the standard for right and wrong. The rebels were right. The loyalists were wrong.

But it's not that simple. Because, now that the fighting's died down and everything's starting to return to normal – now that people are talking to each other again – the lines seem a bit blurrier. I know kids whose parents fought for the Capitol – not because they supported what the Capitol was doing, but because they were afraid of what the Capitol would do to their families if they didn't. I've met people whose relatives joined the rebellion not because they believed in it, but because they thought it was an opportunity for profit or power. Right and wrong don't seem quite as clear.

But I know better than to say _that_ , too, because I don't want to disappoint my father. He and mother threw themselves into the rebellion wholeheartedly, leaving me at home with Kara. And I didn't mind – not really. She practically raised me, and she did a pretty good job if I may say so myself. Ever since Father returned, he's tried to make it up to us. Tried to fill the role of both father and mother.

And he's done pretty well, too. There are still times when I miss mother – or, at least, when I _think_ I do. I was only nine when the two of them joined the rebellion. Sometimes the memories are a bit blurry. But I know she loved me. And I know my father and sister love me. That's the important thing.

Kara squeezes my hand gently as we head for our different sections. She joins the other seventeen-year-olds, and I slide into a spot in the fourteen-year-old section. Teenagers are still pouring into the square from every direction. So many people. But that's a good thing. With so many options, the chances that they'll pick _me_ … well, they're smaller than I thought.

Once everyone's found their places, our escort, Isaac, takes his place onstage. He smiles a little – a knowing smile as he scans the crowd – as if he's already trying to find the two tributes he's about to call to the stage. He doesn't know, of course – no more than anyone else does. No more than I do. And as long as it's not me or Kara…

Then what? Then I don't care? No. No, that's not true. But it has to be _someone_. Maybe it'll be two older tributes this year, like last year. Last year, they picked a sixteen-year-old and a seventeen-year-old. The girl drowned in a swamp pretty early on, but the boy made it to the final four before being killed by the girl from Two. But he took her out with him – that's something.

At least, I think it's something. Should I really be glad that he killed her? Sure, she killed him, but only because that's what she was supposed to do. She didn't want to be in the Games any more than anyone else did. Well, except the volunteers. I can't help shaking my head at the thought. Who in their right mind would want to _volunteer_ for the Games?

Certainly not me. I hold my breath as Isaac says a few words, then makes his way to the first bowl. The girls' bowl. My gaze strays to where Kara stands a few sections ahead of me. Not her. Just not her.

Isaac draws a slip of paper, looks at the name curiously, then apparently decides to take his best shot. "Ada Lavoisier." The name sounds funny, especially with his Capitol accent, but that doesn't matter. Because it wasn't Kara's name. My sister is safe – for another year, at least. One more year after this, and she'll be safe forever.

It's the seventeen-year-old section that parts, though, not far from where my sister is standing. A girl takes a few hesitant steps forward. Then a few more. She doesn't stop until she reaches the stage. She knows better than to think that anyone will volunteer. Not here. Not in District Five. Maybe not _anywhere_ this year. Maybe people know better now.

Once she gets to the stage, she finally turns to face the audience, her face contorted into something resembling a sneer. Pretty fierce-looking, actually. Maybe she's got a chance. That would be good – good for District Five, at least. As long as _I'm_ not the one going into the Games with her…

Isaac quickly shakes the girl's hand, then heads for the second bowl. _Not me. Just not me._ It's not like I have too many friends in the district. No one else I would be devastated to see in the Games. Not that I want to see _anyone_ in the Games, but … well, better them than me.

"Apollo Lancey."

I freeze. I can't move. But I _have_ to me. I manage to find Kara's gaze in the crowd. She's watching me. There are tears in her eyes. But there's nothing she can do. Girls can't volunteer for boys – those are the rules. A male and female tribute from each district. And they already have a girl.

So I have to move. I have to start walking. But it's not until the Peacekeepers start walking towards me that I finally take a step forward. Then another. Keeping pace with them. Not giving them an excuse to grab me and drag me to the stage. I take the stairs slowly, one at a time, being careful not to trip, because I'm starting to feel a little dizzy. Like this can't be real. Almost like it's happening to someone else.

A hand on my shoulder steadies me. Isaac. He holds out his other hand, and I shake it, but my hand is limp and shaky in his. He picked me. How could he pick _me_? How does he expect me to fight alongside people like Ada?

Ada. Now she's holding out her hand. She doesn't look quite as scary up close. And her face still has that sneer, but her eyes … her eyes are wide and maybe even frightened. Maybe she's just as terrified as I am. Maybe she's just better at hiding it.

I shake her hand as firmly as I can – which isn't very firmly at all. But, as her hand closes around mine, I can feel that she's shaking, too. Of course she's afraid. Who _wouldn't_ be afraid? No matter what we do, at least one of us is going to die. Maybe both of us. She'd have to be stupid not to be afraid of that.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

 _Don't be afraid._ They keep saying that. My parents. My older sister, Luna. My little brother, Link. It's all they've been able to say since they came to meet me in the Justice building. _Don't be afraid. It'll be okay. Everything will be all right. You can do this. Don't be scared._

But I _am_ scared. I'd have to be stupid not to be scared. This is a fight to the _death_. I could die. I'm going to have to fight. To kill. And, honestly, I'm not really sure which scares me more – the thought of dying, or the thought of killing.

It should be an obvious answer, really. Dying should be scarier. And before the war, that would definitely have been my answer. At least, I think it would have been. Maybe not. But ever since the war … it's not quite that simple. The number of people who died – yes, that was terrible. It was horrific.

I was lucky enough not to lose anyone close to me, and our family actually did quite well during the war. My father made chemical weapons for the Capitol. Maybe I should feel bad about that. But he was just doing his job. If he hadn't, the Capitol would have found someone else who was perfectly willing to do the same thing. Refusing to make weapons wouldn't have stopped the Capitol from making them some other way, and it could have gotten our family in a lot of trouble.

Anyway, other than my father's job, we managed to avoid the worst of the fighting. But I've heard stories at school. Stories about soldiers – on both sides – who came back from the war, but who came back … different. Scarred – and not just physically. People who came back completely changed by what they'd seen. By what they'd _done._

I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to change. I'm happy with who I am. Maybe my life isn't the most exciting. Despite my father's status, I've always managed to slip into the woodwork, so to speak. No one really pays me much mind, but that's the way I like it. A quiet life. A peaceful life. At least, as peaceful as you can really expect in Panem.

Quiet. Peaceful. Everything the Games isn't going to be. Everything in the Games last year seemed so hectic, so frantic, so fast-paced. I don't know if I can handle that. And I definitely know I don't _want_ to have to handle that.

But I don't have a choice. No one does. It's not as if any of the others want to be in the Games, either. Certainly my new district partner doesn't. He and his family are huddled in a corner on the opposite side of the room, trading the same words of encouragement. _Don't be afraid. It'll be all right._

But it won't be all right. None of this is all right.

Luna slips her arm around my shoulders. "You can do this," she whispers. "You can win this thing."

I swallow hard. She _has_ to say that. What else is she going to say? It's not as if she's going to tell me that I'm going to _die_. But that's the other option – if I can't win, I die. Twenty-three tributes die. Twenty-three of _us_ are going to die. Only one of us is going to live. Do I really have any right to think it's going to be me?

"You're probably older than most of them," Link offers.

I nod a little. He's trying to be helpful. But that doesn't make it any better. Link is twelve – some of the tributes in the arena are going to be his age. Could I really do that? Could I really kill someone who reminds me of my little brother? My hands are shaking as I reach out to ruffle his hair. He grabs my hand and holds it tightly. "Please come back."

I can feel tears in my eyes. Tears that I was fighting to hold back during the reaping. Part of me wanted to cry right then and there. Part of me wanted to scream. Neither part really won out, so I'm not really sure what I ended up looking like, but at least I didn't _cry._ And I'm not going to cry now. I'm not going to…

But why not? I meet my little brother's eyes. Where's the harm in crying? If this is going to be our last time together – if I'm going to be dead in a week or two – then why should I hide what I'm feeling now? There are no cameras in here. No reason to pretend to be strong. Because my family … they know I'm not. I'm not the tough, fearless tribute that the Capitol wants to see. I'm not even sure if that's what I _want_ to be. What I want to _pretend_ to be.

A few tears finally fall from my eyes, and I don't hold them back. It feels good. Luna wraps me in a hug, and Link quickly joins her. Our parents wrap their arms around all of us. For a moment, we stay this way, holding each other close. And it feels good. It feels _real._ More real than anything else has felt ever since Isaac called my name.

But it's a feeling that can't last, because, too soon, the Peacekeepers come to take my family away. Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I struggle to hold onto them for one more moment. "I'll be back soon! I promise!" I call as they're dragged away. It's an empty promise, I know. I can't say for sure that I'll be coming back. No one can. How many tributes last year went into the Games certain that they were going to be coming back? Certain that they would be the one to emerge victorious?

Only one of them was right. Only one of us will be right this year. Maybe it will be me. Maybe not. I take a few deep breaths, pulling the sleeves of my dress back down over my arms. Another little thing that feels real. It's a habit. My family says it's silly – that it's nothing to be ashamed of. But they put up with it – just like I put up with them insisting that it's no big deal.

And maybe it isn't. It's not like I had any say in it. It's just a skin condition – makes the skin on my arms and legs all rough and bumpy. But the kids at school used to make fun of it. Called it chicken skin. So I started covering my arms and legs. Maybe it's not a big deal. Maybe it's just a little thing. But it's something that makes me feel a little bit safer, a little bit more confident. And, right now, I can use all the confidence I can get.

The door opens again, and this time it's Viola who comes in. She doesn't tell me not to be afraid. She barely says anything. She just sits next to me, quietly, like we usually do. Like I haven't just been picked for a fight to the death. Just two best friends, sitting quietly and enjoying each other's company.

And I do – enjoy her company, that is. Not something I can say about most people. Not that I _dislike_ most people – don't get me wrong. For the most part, people are okay. But there aren't that many who I actually _enjoy_ being around. Whose presence I actually appreciate rather than simply try to deal with. But Viola is one of those.

But she can't stay long, either, because the Peacekeepers quickly come to take her away, leaving me alone in the room with Apollo. He glances over at me. I glance over at him. Neither of us says anything. What are we supposed to say? _Good luck?_ If I wish _him_ good luck – if I pretend that I want him to come home – then that means that I'm going to die. And the same is true for him. How can any of us really hope for any of the others to do well?

And yet … pretty much every tribute last year ended up working with _someone_ in the arena. Even a few of the tributes who started off alone were working with someone by the end. I didn't really understand that at first. Still don't, really. I've never been someone who's _needed_ to be around other people. But maybe things change once you're in the arena, and you can't just walk down the hall and find someone else to talk to if you want. Maybe things are different in the Games.

I close my eyes, leaning back a little in my chair. I don't _want_ things to be different in the Games. I don't want to _be_ in the Games at all. It's not fair. None of this is fair…

"I know, right?" Apollo's voice startles me from my thoughts. Did I say that out loud? Or were my feelings about the Games just that obvious? Maybe. After all, I'm sure he feels the same way. Sure that every other tribute who's about to be thrown into the arena feels the same way. Scared. Betrayed. Uncertain.

Uncertain. My family teases me about that sometimes – not being able to make up my mind. Not being able to decide what it is that I want to do with my life. But I'm only seventeen. I shouldn't _have_ to be making those sorts of decisions. Not yet. But I'll have to, if I want to survive. Tributes younger than me will have to make those same sorts of decisions. Those same sorts of life-and-death choices.

I clench my fists a little. If they can do it, so can I. If a little thirteen-year-old from District One could win last year, then maybe I can, too. Maybe. I shake my head. _Maybe_ doesn't sound like much. But, right now, _maybe_ is all I have. And that's something they can't take away.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I thought maybe he would come with me this year. I wasn't really surprised that my father didn't come with me to the square last year – not so soon after the war. And, in a way, I'm glad he didn't. Because then he would have seen what happened afterwards. And that … that wouldn't have been good for him.

Not that it was _good_ for any of us. Last year, the tributes' families were executed after the reaping. Crucified in front of the whole crowd. No one stepped in. No one did anything. We all knew better.

The same thing won't happen this year. Probably not, at least. Last year, the boy was one of the rebel leaders in District Seven, and his friends who were executed had all been rebels themselves. The girl had been known for spreading rebel propaganda – even after the war – and her family had been arrested shortly before the reaping. She'd volunteered in the hopes of saving them, so the Capitol executed them to … what? Prove her wrong? Punish her? I'm not sure. And if I'm not sure why they did it, how can I be so sure the same thing won't happen this year?

 _Stop it._ I'm probably being paranoid. Probably. Maybe. More likely than not, it's not even my problem. Which probably sounds a bit cold, but … well, I have my hands full taking care of myself and my father. I can't afford to worry about everyone else's problems, too.

It didn't used to be this way. Before the war, things were different. Maybe we didn't have much, but we always had enough to get by. My father started training me to work in his little carpenter's shop. We had a good life. Even once the rebellion began, we figured if we simply laid low – kept our heads down and our noses clean, if you will – then we'd be fine. All we had to do was stay out of it, and the war would just pass us by.

We were wrong. My mother was on her way to the district square one day to buy food when she got caught up in a riot. She wasn't part of the fighting, but when Peacekeepers were sent in to subdue the rebels, she was killed along with them. The Peacekeepers didn't care that she wasn't there to cause trouble. That she was just trying to keep our family fed.

My father … he didn't take it well. He ran off and joined up with the first rebel group he could find. I didn't see him again until two years later, after the war. After the Capitol released some of the prisoners they'd taken during the rebellion. He still won't talk about exactly what happened, but he doesn't need to. The scars on his back. The missing fingers. The limp in his gait when he does manage to get out of bed in the morning. The look in his eye whenever someone mentions the Capitol or the rebellion or Peacekeepers or … well, _anything_ , it seems. That tells the story well enough.

So that's why I didn't even tell him it was reaping day. I thought he might remember on his own, but … well, maybe it's better that he didn't. I can handle it myself. If I'm not picked, then I can just go home – no harm done. And if I am … I honestly don't know whether I'd rather have him there or not. I mean, I'd certainly want the chance to say goodbye to him, but I wouldn't want him to do anything – or say anything – that might get him in trouble. Something that might get him _killed._

So I head for the district square alone. That's not much of a change. I learned to fend for myself during the war, and it's a good thing, too, since my father hasn't exactly been able to provide for us even since he's returned. Our little carpentry shop is long gone, so I took a job chopping wood in the lumberyard. It's not enough, really, but, between that and the tesserae I took, we've managed not to starve. That might not sound like much of an accomplishment, but considering our earnings are coming from a thirteen-year-old kid … not bad.

The downside, of course, is that my name is in the bowl four times this year. Last year, it was only in once. But in addition to being a year older, I took tesserae for myself and my father. Four slips, though … that's not really _that_ much. Not compared to what some kids have. Older kids, or kids with larger families who could take more tesserae. My chances are slim compared to theirs.

But that doesn't stop me from shaking a little as our escort takes the stage. General Luther Tyrone, one of the most famous leaders of the Capitol's army during the rebellion. When he was assigned here last year, most of us wondered why – why such a prestigious military hero would be assigned to District Seven, rather than One or Two. But after the executions he oversaw last year, we understood. He's not here for the glory or honor it would bring him. He's here to keep us in line.

Sure enough, the crowd grows even quieter as he takes the stage. Not that there was much chatter to begin with. Not that there's really anything worth making small talk about on reaping day. There were a few older siblings reassuring younger ones, a few younger children in the crowd outside our roped-off section crying. But everything goes silent as General Tyrone makes his way to the first bowl.

He doesn't waste any time. Maybe he just wants this over with as badly as we do. He can't possibly _want_ to be here. He's just doing his job. His duty. His voice is calm and even as he reads the first name. "Aria Barker."

It's not a name I know. Not that I know many people outside of work. A few sections ahead of me, the sixteen-year-old section parts to make way for a tall, lean, healthy-looking girl. For a moment or two, she doesn't even move. Maybe she's hoping someone will volunteer. But things didn't work out so well for our volunteer last year. No one's going to take the same risk.

Finally, she takes a few steps forward. Then a few more. As she finally reaches the stage and turns to face the crowd, I can't help but feel sorry for her. Shock, terror, dread – they're all evident in her expression.

Not that anyone can blame her for that. Of course she's afraid. Who _wouldn't_ be? Tyrone nods briskly in her direction before turning his attention to the second bowl and quickly drawing a name. "Bentley Norman."

Well, like I said, who _wouldn't_ be afraid? I'm certainly not the exception. The crowd parts, leaving me a clear path to the stage, but it's not until I see the Peacekeepers that my legs finally begin to move. I want to run. To turn and race in the other direction as quickly as I can. I know I wouldn't make it – I know they would catch me – but there's a part of me that doesn't care. That just doesn't want to go quietly.

But I don't run. I keep walking – straight for the stage. Not for my own sake, but for my father's. I can't give them a reason to hurt him. To kill him, like they killed the tributes' families last year. I won't let them do that – not to him. He's already been through so much. I won't let him die because of me.

The thought of my father, though, brings tears to my eyes. I swallow hard, fighting back the lump that's forming in my throat. If I die, what happens to him? He can't take care of himself. Most days, he can barely get out of bed. And there's no one else to help him. No one who would take on that burden, if I'm gone.

One thing at a time. One step. Then another. Up the stairs. Everyone is watching me. Some of them give me sympathetic looks. But no one steps forward. No one volunteers.

I wasn't expecting them to. Why would anyone risk their life for me? Even if they knew about my father – even if they felt sorry for me – they have their own problems. Their own lives. Their own loved ones to worry about. Why would they risk all that for a stranger?

They won't. And they shouldn't. This is my problem. My burden. And I can't really expect help from anyone. Not my district partner. Certainly not our escort. To him, we're probably just another pair of hopeless tributes. More rebel scum to be disposed of in the Games.

"Shake hands," he says quietly, in a voice that's far too calm. Aria extends her hand, and I take it as firmly as I can. But, despite my best efforts, my hands are cold and clammy. I'm still trembling as she shakes my hand, and I can't bring myself to look up at her, or General Tyrone, or even the crowd. Because no matter how much they might pretend to be on my side, no matter how much they might be rooting for me to come back, the truth is I'm already alone.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

The shock's finally beginning to wear off, and … well, shit. This sucks. There's really no nice way to put it. No easy way to brush off the fact that I've just been picked for a fight to the death.

Bentley and I are escorted to the Justice Building. The _Justice_ Building. Even its name is a joke. There's no justice here. There was no justice during the war, when my brother and my boyfriend, accused of being rebel leaders, were executed without a trial. There was no justice last year, when the families of both tributes were killed without question. And there's no justice now. Not when I've been chosen to go into the Games with this … this _kid_.

I mean, hell, he barely looks thirteen. He shouldn't be here. Not that _I_ should be here, either. _No one_ should be here. What gives the Capitol the right to come here and drag kids away to their deaths? Do we come to their precious Capitol and screw up their lives? No.

Well, not much, anyway. Even during their most optimistic days, the rebels didn't even come close to being able to wage a full-out assault on the Capitol. No, they may have made things rough for the generals and the commanders and the president. But everyday Capitol citizens? They probably didn't notice a thing.

Here in the districts, though … well, that's a different story. Not only was _everything_ in short supply, but everything _fun_ was suddenly off-limits. My family used to be quite on the wealthy side. We were allowed certain … privileges that were off-limits to most in the district. And the Peacekeepers cut us a little more slack, especially with regards to certain restricted materials. Not that I cared about most of that – except for the books.

Books are strictly regulated in Panem, of course. Everything has to meet the Capitol's standards. They won't allow anything that has even a small _hint_ of rebellious thinking. Even before the war, things were pretty strict, but our family still had a small collection of books that had been passed down from generation to generation. Books from a time before … before what, I'm not quite sure, but a _long_ time ago. Books with missing pages and torn covers and faded writing. Books that I immersed myself in since my parents taught me to read.

It's all gone now. The books. My family's wealth. The war stole everything from us. The _Capitol_ stole everything from us. Burned the books, along with everything else they could find. But I managed to save a few pages from one of my favorites, and it's those crumpled-up pages that I tucked gently into my pocket this morning, hoping they would keep me safe. _Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light._

Bullshit. This is certainly the darkest of times – or, at least, it will be soon. And what is there to be happy about? Except for the faint hope that maybe – just maybe – I might have a chance of winning this thing.

But do I? Do I really? We all saw what happened to District Seven's tributes last year. If they suspect – even for a moment – that I was involved with the rebellion…

But I wasn't. Branden and Landon weren't. They were innocent. All we wanted was to stay out of it. But that won't stop the damn rumors, if they make their way to the Capitol. And what about my family? Last year—

Before I can begin to worry about them, however, the door opens, and they enter – safe and sound. My mother and father. My older sister, Sparrow. That's a relief, at least. They're safe. They're not going to be executed for something we didn't even do. Something we would never have dreamed of doing.

It's not that we ever _liked_ the Capitol. But, before the rebellion, things weren't so bad for us. We had no reason to join the rebellion. Even now … well, things could certainly be a lot worse. My mother and sister work in the paper factory, and I work in the forests as a lumberjill. But it's not so bad. At least, it wasn't. Until now.

My family quickly embraces me, holding me close. I don't know how much time we're going to have together. But, whatever it is, it's more than last year's tributes got. Maybe I should be grateful for that. But it's hard to be grateful for anything when my mind is spinning so fast. I have to win. I have to come back to them. I can't let them lose anyone else.

That means I'll have to fight. I'll have to kill. I don't _want_ to, of course. No more than the other twenty-three tributes across Panem who are being picked today. Last year, there were a few volunteers, but surely no one will be stupid enough to do that this year. No one volunteered for _me_. Or even for my district partner, who's sitting silently in the corner, waiting to see if anyone is coming to see him.

No one does. That shouldn't be my problem, but I can't help feeling sorry for him. At least I have my family. What's left of my family, anyway. They haven't been quite the same ever since my brother Branden's death. But they're still a lot better than nothing. And I would do anything – _anything_ – to come back to them.

Wouldn't anyone? Sure, the boy sitting in the corner on the other side of the room may look harmless, but that's probably just part of the act. He's trying to get sympathy. And then what? Is he planning to stab me in the back the first chance he gets? Or will he just wait and hope that someone else does it? Well, I'm not going to let them. I'm going to prove them wrong. All of them. Everyone who's out there saying that District Seven doesn't have a chance after what happened last year.

Last year. Last year was a disaster. The boy was the third tribute to die. The girl, Silver, made it to the final ten – but at a cost. She went mad, torturing one tribute to death and nearly doing the same to a second – the eventual Victor – before he managed to kill her. What she did … well, it was horrible, but, at the same time, I understand. If I'd seen my whole family killed in front of me, who knows what I might have done.

Hopefully, I'll never find out. My family is still very much alive as the Peacekeepers come to lead them away. They go without a fuss. After last year, they know better than to fight. We all do. A wrong move, a wrong word, and they could all be dead within minutes.

No. No, I'm not going to let that happen. If it were just me – if it were only my life at stake – I probably would have mouthed off to General Tyrone onstage right after he called my name. But it's not just me. I have my family to think of. A family that's already lost so much. And, to be blunt, _I_ don't want to die, either. And that means I'll have to keep my mouth shut – for a while, at least.

In any case, that seems like a better idea than talking to my district partner, anyway. Better not to get attached – especially to someone who's going to be useless as hell once the Games actually start. Maybe it's better not to get attached to anyone. That's what finally made Silver snap, after all. She was working with her district partner and the boy from Four, and they were both killed at the very start of the Games. Memphis blew up on his podium. Simon was killed by the boy from Two – the boy Silver took her need for revenge out on.

I can't afford to make the same mistake. Can't afford to get attached to someone who's going to die, anyway. And Bentley doesn't seem particularly interested in making friends, either. So we avoid eye contact until the door opens once more, and General Tyrone comes to take us to the train.

A train. There were trains in the stories, too – the best ones, the ones I loved. The ones the Capitol burned. Trains that took the heroes to a magical place, where they learned to fight against the darkness. A place where they found a hat – a hat that could look inside their minds, or maybe their hearts, and help them discover who they really were.

And maybe … well, maybe that's what the Games are, in the end. Maybe Silver didn't go mad in the Games. Maybe she was always mad, and the Games simply brought that to the surface. Maybe the tributes who killed weren't changed by the Games at all. Maybe they were already killers. Maybe we're _all_ killers, when it comes down to it. Maybe we're all monsters. Maybe we're all capable of being the fighters – the tributes – the Capitol expects us to be.

Maybe _I'm_ capable of that. I don't know. And I'm not really sure I want to find out. But what I want doesn't matter now. No matter what I do, I'm going into the arena. But it's what _I_ do – and who _I_ am – that determines whether or not I'm coming out.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

It still surprises me sometimes that this is what we came back to. My family spent most of the war in hiding in the wilderness at the edge of the district. It seemed safer. Safer for a family that was known for being Capitol loyalists. But our loyalty didn't stop my father from being killed in an attack at the beginning of the war. After he died, my sister Carrie lost it. She ran away to join the rebels.

And the rest of us … well, I suppose we ran away, too. My mother and my little brother Robbie and I. We ran and we kept running. No one cared. They were too busy trying to kill each other to worry about one small family living in the wilderness. We spent the rest of the war living off the land, gathering our own food, hoping that no one would find us.

And they didn't. Maybe we could even have stayed there longer. Maybe no one would have found us. But when a hovercraft flew overhead one day, our mother made the decision that it was time to return. That it was better to return freely than to be found. Maybe the fighting was over. Maybe there was peace.

She was right about the war being over. The fighting was done. Everything had settled down a bit. But peace … that's going to take longer. Feelings are still strong – on both sides. The country is going to take a long time to heal. And the Games…

Honestly, I'm not quite sure how I feel about the Games. My family has always supported the Capitol, but this … this seems a little harsh. Sure, it's better than war. Twenty-three deaths a year are better than the thousands who died fighting during the rebellion. So if it keeps another rebellion at bay, then, mathematically, it's a good thing.

And as a punishment, I suppose it makes sense. The rebels chose to fight. They knew that fighting would have an impact on their children. Their children's children. But continuing it longer than that – long after the original rebels are dead – just seems cruel. Eventually, they'll probably stop. It'll lose its meaning. Its purpose. They can't keep doing this forever.

At least, I hope they can't. I hope what my parents always told me about the Capitol is true. That, despite what the rebels said, they really do care about what happens in the districts. That they're only doing this to keep us from inflicting more harm on ourselves by rebelling again. That's what my mother says. That's what my father would say. But Carrie…

We never saw her again, after the war. I've looked, but … well, District Nine is a big place – which is why we were able to hide so easily. She could be anywhere. If she survived the war, _she_ could very well be hiding, too. She's eighteen this year, if she's still alive. Maybe she's hiding until she isn't old enough to be reaped anymore. Maybe after that, she'll come back to us.

If she's still alive. If she's dead … I'll probably never know. Soldiers on both sides usually just burned the bodies of soldiers they found who had fought for the other side. Quicker and easier than burying them, I suppose. But that means there are no real records of a lot of the dead. If she's gone, I'll never know.

But maybe that's better – not knowing. If I don't know for sure, I can still pretend. I can still hope that she's still alive out there. Somewhere. Somewhere in the vast wilderness surrounding our district. Maybe she'll just stay there. Maybe she'll be safe forever.

Safe. That word sounds a bit funny, on reaping day. I'm as safe as anyone can expect to be. I'm thirteen, so my name is only in the reaping bowl twice. But that didn't seem to matter last year. They chose a thirteen-year-old boy – Peter – here in District Nine. And the Victor – Maverick – he was thirteen. He fought and killed right alongside the rest of them. He proved that his age didn't mean he was doomed from the start. You can't help but respect him for that.

Not that I want to be in his position. No matter how things turned out, the fact is that he killed three people in order to leave the arena alive. True, they would each have killed him if he hadn't. And he _did_ volunteer to be there in the first place. And maybe in his case, that even made sense. He had nothing. No family. No home. He was living on the streets. So maybe it made sense to risk it all in the hope of getting everything he could ever want.

But in my case … no. No, our family is already doing … not _well_ , maybe, but well enough that we can get by without having to take tesserae. Which is the reason my name is only in the bowl twice. But Peter's name was only in the bowl twice…

 _Stop it._ There's no point in worrying about it. No point in stressing over something I can't possibly change. If they call my name, they call my name. If they don't, they don't. It's as simple as that. No one is going to volunteer. Not here. Not in District Nine. If they _do_ call my name, I'm on my own.

But I'm not alone yet. My mother and Robbie walk with me to the district square. Robbie's too young for the reaping, but my mother wanted to bring him, anyway. To show him that there's nothing to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of.

Right. Nothing to be afraid of. They're just choosing two kids to die. And I could be one of them. That's all.

I squeeze Robbie's hand tightly one more time as I head for the thirteen-year-old section. Even though I know I won't find her, my eyes can't help sweeping the crowd for any sign of Carrie. Silly of me, really. If she's hiding, why would she come to the reaping? Instead, I watch as our escort, Commander Phoenix LaVelle, takes the stage with a smile on her face. "Hello, District Nine! It's wonderful to be back."

Is it? She certainly _sounds_ excited, but she looks a bit … well, wearier than last year. As if what happened to Peter and Sienna last year wasn't exactly what she signed up for. But, of course, it _was_. What did she _think_ was going to happen to two outer-district kids in a fight to the death? The fact that they both made it as far as they did – Peter placed 13th and Sienna placed sixth – is actually pretty impressive.

But, in the end, they still died. It doesn't really matter who placed where – neither of them came home to their family. They're both dead. And now Phoenix is here to pick two more children who, in a matter of weeks, will probably be just as dead. Unless one of them gets lucky. Very, very lucky.

Phoenix gives a short speech before heading for the first bowl. I realize I'm holding my breath as she reaches in. Draws a name. Unfolds the small slip of paper. "Melanie Mills!"

Melanie Mills. Melanie. Melanie … she means me. Mel. By the time I realize it, the Peacekeepers are already heading in my direction. I swallow hard. No one calls me Melanie – except my mother when she's upset. But that's not very often. Usually it's Mel. Just Mel. But the Capitol doesn't care. Phoenix meant me. There's no one else she could have meant.

I take a step forward. Then another. My legs are wobbling – so much that I nearly trip over the stairs as I make my way up, slowly and shakily. There are tears in my eyes, but I blink them away. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.

Phoenix is watching me. The rest of the district is watching me. But I don't look. I just clench my fists as hard as I can and wait. Wait for her to call another name. Wait to see who's going with me into the Games.

"Jim Demetrius!" Phoenix calls, and, almost immediately, the eighteen-year-old section parts around a tall, slim boy. It takes him a moment to start walking, but, by the time he reaches the stage, he's smiling – at Phoenix. His hair is swept to one side, his eyes shining with delight despite what's happening.

"Well, hello there," he grins, flipping the ends of Phoneix's hair – which are dyed rainbow colors – gently with his fingers. "How'd a lovely lady like yourself end up being escort for this sorry little district?" Before she can respond, however, he turns to me, holding out his hand. "And you, young lady. A pleasure, though I'm sorry for the circumstances."

I take his hand – hesitantly, at first, but then he gives it a gentle squeeze, and I shake it as firmly as I can. "Me, too." And I am. I'm sorry – for both of us. He seems like a decent guy. He's trying to be nice. Or maybe he's just trying to cope – trying to deal with the fact that he was just chosen for a death match along with a thirteen-year-old. Either way, he's being friendly. It can't hurt to be friendly back.

Except it can. Once we're in the Games, he's competition. I let go of his hand as we're led to the Justice Building. I can't afford to play nice – no matter how much I might want to be friendly. Neither of us can. Not if we want to survive this.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

Well, that's just my luck. That's the only thought running through my mind as Melanie and I are led to the Justice Building. Just my sort of rotten luck. Not only have I been picked for a fight to the death along with a thirteen-year-old kid, but chances are my mother will never even know I'm gone.

Not that it's her fault. Not really. Just bad luck. Bad luck that turned my father into a violent drunk during the war. He always had a bit of a temper, but he never took it out on us – not until the war. Then, one night, he came home drunk and attacked my sister, Vivian. I tried to stop him, but … well, I was thirteen. What was I going to do? I ran, and, by the time I came back, Savanna was dead.

My mother was never the same – even after we learned that my father had been killed in the war. Most of the time, she doesn't even recognize me. I don't know what's going on in her head – whether she thinks I'm dead, or I'm him, or I'm just a complete stranger. But she rarely speaks to me, and, when she does, she just asks where her son is. Or where her daughter is.

So it's no surprise, I suppose, that she doesn't turn up to say goodbye. I wasn't really expecting her to. When the Peacekeepers open the door to let Melanie's family in – her mother and brother, I'm guessing – the only person here to see me is Dave, who seems to be holding something.

As he sits down next to me, he slips it into my hand – a key, with a string through the end. A key I immediately recognize as a key to his house. "Keep it," he says. "Remember – you'll always have a home to come back to."

I slip the key around my neck, smiling. "Sure, but if I win, they'll probably build me a house like they did in District One – so you can come visit me, instead."

Dave laughs a little at the joke, but I do appreciate the thought. More than I let on. Dave's been there for me through everything. I never seem to be short on friends – especially of the female variety – but Dave's the only one who's always been there. He's been a constant in my life in a way nothing else has. Certainly not my family. Maybe not even myself. I've always been certain that Dave will be there for me.

And he'll be here when I come back. If I come back. The thought of returning to District Nine – it seems so distant. Twenty-three tributes stand between me and the certainty of coming back home. I can't even begin to think that far ahead. The thought of fighting – of killing, the way my father killed Vivian – it makes me sick.

And the tributes – some of them won't be much older than she was. She was eight when she died. I was thirteen. The same age my district partner is now.

And that's the worst part, really. Killing other tributes my age – that doesn't really sound so bad. Especially not if their lives have been as shitty as mine. Maybe I'd even be doing some of them a favor. But killing younger tributes like her – little boys and girls who never did anything to me – I don't know if I'd be able to handle that.

But I'll have to, if I want to come back. I have to be willing to kill _anyone_. Because everyone in the arena is going to be trying to kill me. It's not like younger tributes _can't_ kill. Last year's Victor was only thirteen. He killed three tributes – all of them older than him. Melanie is just as likely to kill me as the other way around.

"You all right?" Dave's voice interrupts my thoughts.

I shake my head. No. No, I'm not all right. None of this is all right. "I don't know if I can do this."

 _Of course you can._ That's what most people would say. _Of course you can do this. You always act like you can do anything._ But Dave knows better. The act I put on – the swagger, the confidence – it's a show. When my father died, I swore to myself I would start over. I would put the past behind me. I would be able to forget everything that had happened.

And most of the time, I manage. I manage to forget, to move on, to act like there's nothing wrong with my life. But hearing my name called today – that brought it all back. The feeling of helplessness, of not being able to do a damn thing to protect my sister, of not knowing what to do or who to trust. All of it came rushing back.

"Just take it one step at a time," Dave says gently. "Just get through today. You can do that."

Maybe I can. That's the thought I'm left with as the Peacekeepers come to take Dave away, along with Melanie's family. Maybe I can just get through today. Worry about the Games later. A lot can happen before the Games. We have time to train. Time for the audience to see us.

The audience. That's one thing I should be able to handle. I've always been good at putting on a show. But the actual Games – the fighting, the killing – that's different.

Or is it? Maybe it's _all_ just a show. Maybe it's all about _looking_ confident, _seeming_ to know what you're doing. After all, how many of us going into the Games already know how to fight? Last year, there were a few tributes who had fought – who had been part of the rebellion or had trained to fight for the Capitol army – but not most of them. And not the kid who won.

So if I _act_ ready, maybe that's most of the way to _being_ ready. As Dave leaves, I put on a smile again and turn to my district partner. "So, Melanie, right?"

"Mel," she says softly. "It's just Mel."

"Mel. That sounds better, anyway. Short, sweet, matter-of-fact. Good to meet you, Mel. Mel and Jim – District Nine tributes."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're _excited_ about this?"

So it's working. I _seem_ excited, at least. "No, but being upset about it isn't going to change a damn thing. So we might as well enjoy it."

Mel shakes her head. "I don't want to enjoy it. I just want to survive it."

"Fair enough. But where's the harm in having a little fun along the way?"

Mel rolls her eyes and turns her back to me. Not that I really blame her. The harm, of course, in having fun is that it's a distraction. If she's busy having fun and enjoying herself, she might miss something important. She might not notice something that's going to be crucial later.

Still, as Phoenix comes to take us to the train, I can't help thinking that we might as well enjoy this while we can. We get a few days of all the luxury the Capitol has to offer before we have to start fighting for our lives. Might as well take advantage of that.

Phoenix is smiling as she escorts us onto the train. And maybe that smile is enough to fool the cameras – or even Mel. But it doesn't fool me – because it's the same sort of smile I practice every morning. It's the same smile I've taught myself, because it's easier to get by if you're friendly, if you pretend that you're enjoying yourself. I drape an arm around Phoenix's shoulders. "It looks splendid."

And it does. Everything on the train looks luxurious – from the food that's laid out on the tables to the chairs around them. Mel takes a seat immediately as the train starts moving, and Phoenix ducks out from underneath my arm. "Just try not to get too comfortable."

 _Try not to get too comfortable._ But I can tell already that the comment wasn't just directed at us. It wasn't just a warning not to get too accustomed to the Capitol's luxuries because we're going to be fighting for our lives in a few days. It wasn't just a reminder of what's really about to happen.

No. No, it was also a reminder to herself. A reminder not to get too comfortable with us. Not to get too attached – because we could very well be dead soon. And while it's her job to make sure that we're treated well and know what we're doing, she can't really afford to get close. She can't afford to care.

Maybe she made that mistake last year. Maybe that's why she seems a bit more … reluctant. The twelve of them who signed up as escorts – they knew what they were volunteering for, but maybe they didn't really understand exactly what it would be like. There's a little part of me that even feels sorry for her.

But only a little part. Because no matter how sorry she might feel about it now, the truth is that she signed up for a job leading kids to their deaths. Encouraging us to fight each other. To kill each other. The boy and girl last year – they trusted her to help them make it out of the arena alive. And she failed. And she's going to fail at least one of us this year. That much is certain. Now matter how much she might want to pretend otherwise, she won't be able to help both of us. So I'm just going to have to do everything I can to make sure that she helps _me._

* * *

 **One more chapter of reapings to go!**


	8. More of Us

**More of Us**

" _Raise a glass to the four of us. Tomorrow there'll be more of us telling the story of tonight."_

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

And it's reaping day again. It's times like this that I wish we'd stayed near the Capitol. When the fighting broke out in the districts at the start of the rebellion, my family and I moved to the outskirts of the Capitol, near one of my dad's buddies from his business. I guess you could say it was a real _Capitol_ experience. I loved it – we all did, I guess – and we stayed pretty far away from any of the real fighting.

But when the war was over, we had to move back. Makes sense, I guess. My dad's business needed him back here. And most of the time, it ain't so bad. Most folks leave us alone, on account of my father's job. Well, most folks leave _him_ alone. I don't want to be left alone. Since we got back, I've made a point of talking to _anyone._ Everyone. Most of 'em don't mind. They're happy to have someone who'll listen to them.

And I'm happy to listen. Or talk. Either one. If they don't want to talk, I'll do the talking for them. Like Rachel. She didn't have it as good as I did during the war. Her family got trapped in a bombed-out building for days, unable to do anything but wait and hope it wouldn't collapse. She got a bit shaken up by that. Get it? _Shaken_ up. She doesn't laugh at that. Can't really blame her, I guess. Maybe I wouldn't laugh, either, if it were me.

But I'd like to think I would. Like to think that I'd still have my sense of humor, even if everything else was gone. I mean, hell, if you're not going to _enjoy_ yourself, then what's the point of living? So many people go about their lives just trying to survive. Trying not to get in trouble, trying not to ruffle any feathers – especially the Capitol's. But they spend so much time trying not to die that they forget to _live_.

"Are you nervous?" My sister Tania's voice cuts through my thoughts as the two of us head for the square, our parents lagging behind. She's twelve, so it's her first reaping. Not that that's saying much, really – it's only my second. Only _anyone's_ second reaping. Last year, this was all new. No one really had any idea what to expect.

"Nah, I'm sure it'll be as a- _maze-_ ing as last year." I give her shoulder a gentle punch. She stares blankly. "Get it? Amazing? Because last year's arena was a _maze_?" Come on, Sis, how many times did I make that joke last year?

That annoyed some folks – making jokes about the Games. But I wasn't about to let that stop me. If the Capitol's going to _call_ it a Game, then we might as well have some fun with it, right? What's the point in being all stuffy and sad about it?

Maybe I'd feel different if it was me, I guess. Or if it was Tania. But it wasn't last year. And it probably won't be this year. "You'll be fine," I insist, ruffling her hair. "They want big, strong tributes like me – not little shrimps like you."

That's only half-true, though. I'm bigger than her, sure – maybe even bigger than most folks. But stronger? That's a laugh. Aami and I fight sometimes – for fun, you know – and, well, I almost won once. She's fourteen. Saw her baby sister get eaten by a mutt. Guess that made her a bit _tougher_ … so the mutt wouldn't want to chew her.

"They picked a twelve-year-old last year," Tania reminds me. "Two, actually – one here and one in Twelve."

"Exactly," I shrug. "So what're the chances they'd pick a twelve-year-old from the same district two years in a row?"

"That's not the point. The fact that they already picked one last year doesn't mean anything about my chances this year. They could've picked two twelve-year-olds last year, and I'd still have the same chance of being chosen."

"That's what I said – doesn't matter that they chose a twelve-year-old last year."

Tania shakes her head, frustrated, as we reach the square. "You know what I meant."

Actually, I don't. I don't really understand that – the urge to figure out her exact chances, to obsess over what's about to happen. Either she'll be picked or she won't. And, sure, it'd be terrible if she was, but worrying her head off about it beforehand isn't going to change a thing. I mean, unless she _literally_ worried her head off. No point in sending a headless body into the Games.

That's the only surefire way to avoid the Games, really – to kill yourself first. But that'd just be stupid. I mean, if you _were_ going to kill yourself anyway, why _not_ volunteer for the Games – at least save someone else's life in the process. Not that I'm about to do _that,_ mind you. I very much like being alive.

I pull Tania into the seventeen-year-old section with me. She mumbles something about how she's supposed to be with her own age group, but who cares? If she's called, it'll make her look older. Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it just feels good to have my little sister with me – either for her sake or mine. After a moment, she stops fussing and squeezes in a little closer to me. I rest an arm on her shoulder, and, for once she doesn't bat it away. She must be scared.

I can't help a chuckle as our escort, Leopold, takes the stage. His hair was dyed black and bright yellow last year, but this year he's dyed it a pale silver and spiked it up all funny. "Heh. Look what the Games did to him – and he wasn't even in the arena." Other than his ridiculous hair, however, he doesn't seem to have aged. The Games don't really seem to have had an effect on him.

And why should they? Why did I expect anything different? It's not like _he_ was the one in the arena fighting for his life last year. And it's not like he knew the tributes for more than a few days before they were in the Games, fighting to the death. Sure, both of them lasted a while – they placed 16th and 15th – but he knew better than to get attached.

And, as he makes his way to the first reaping bowl, he gives us no reason to think this year will be any different. He already looks bored. Annoyed. Like he just wants to get out of District Three as quickly as possible. Can't imagine why. It's such an _electrify_ ing district. There's an almost _magnetic_ pull to it.

Okay. Okay, focus. Like focusing will change anything. As if focusing hard enough will keep him from drawing my sister's name. He reaches in. Draws a slip of paper. Tania's hand closes around mine as he reads the name. "Dina Brookfield."

Tania breathes a sigh of relief, and, if I'm being honest, so do I. But the girl who emerges from the fifteen-year-old section – the girl who's pushed out with a little shove, actually – doesn't look at all excited. I suppose I wouldn't be, either. But she could at least _pretend_ to be excited. At least try to give the impression that she wants to be here, instead of shaking like a leaf and shrinking away from Leopold's gaze as she takes the stage. I mean, sure, he's a bit scary-looking, but if she's afraid of _him_ , what's she going to do once she's in the Games? How long's it going to take _Di_ -na to … well, die?

"Rick Therald."

Wait, what? He didn't even wait until she was ready. I mean, not that he needs to wait for her to be ready in order to – holy shit, he just called my name! _My_ name! Tania squeezes my hand tightly, but I pull away. I start walking. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? Run? Shit, maybe I should run.

But I'm already halfway to the stage. And if I run, then what? Would they shoot me? Maybe. Or maybe they wouldn't want to kill me. If they did kill me – then what? Would they just pick someone else? Probably. They don't really care _who_ goes into the Games. Maybe they'd pick someone else even if they just _hurt_ me. Maybe I should've run…

But it's too late. Too late for that. I'm already onstage. Standing next to Dina. Everything I was thinking about trying to look excited or looking like I _want_ to be here – yeah, that's all gone. Maybe that would be a good idea, but, right now, I'm too damn scared. So at least Dina and I have _that_ in common.

"Just shake hands already," Leopold grumbles. Shake hands. Okay. I can do that. I immediately turn to the audience, shaking – or, at least, waving – both my hands wildly. Dina giggles a little, and I beam back. Worth it. Definitely worth making a fool of myself. Like I always say, do enough dumb shit, and sooner or later, people have to laugh.

Leopold's not laughing, though. So, after a moment, I turn to Dina and _actually_ shake her hand. She grips my hand tightly. "It'll be okay," she whispers encouragingly. _That's the spirit._

"Sure," Leopold mutters. "Just not for you." Just not for the two of us. Just two more tributes he's sure are going to die on his watch. And maybe we will. Certainly at least one of us will. But first, we'll show him how to live.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

At least it wasn't any of my younger siblings. That's the only thought that keeps running through my head as they come to say goodbye. My parents. Futura, Albert, Nina, Isaac, and Digit. All younger than me. Futura is fourteen this year, and Albert is twelve. Either of them could have been chosen – the others are too young. But it was me, instead.

Me. _I'm_ going into the Hunger Games. _I'm_ going to have to fight the other tributes. Maybe even the boy who's here in the Justice Building with me, saying goodbye to his own parents and sister. He might kill me. I might kill him. I don't know if I can do that. If not for last year, I might not have believed that they could force _anyone_ to do that. We aren't soldiers. We're not trained. We didn't sign up for this. I wouldn't have believed that even the Capitol would be able to make teenagers kill each other for their entertainment. That people would actually go _along_ with it.

But they did. _We_ did. Because I didn't exactly do anything about it, either. Just like we didn't do anything to help the rebels during the war. There were other families who did. Other families just like ours who pitched in to help out with anything the rebels might need. Who offered supplies, weapons, even their own lives to help the cause.

We didn't. And we survived. We stayed away from the fighting, and it saved our lives. But if we hadn't – and if the thousands of families like ours across Panem hadn't – would the war have gone differently? Could we have made a difference?

Maybe. Maybe not. We'll never know, because the promises the rebels made – promises of a free Panem, of equality for everyone and an end to the Capitol's oppression – weren't enough for my parents to risk their lives. They had us to think about – six children who needed their help and support more than the rebels did. Six children they didn't want to leave without a mother and father.

I don't blame them for that. How could I? If they had fought, they would probably have died. Neither of them is exactly what you would call soldier material. Not that I am, either. I've never been in a fight in my life. Not unless occasionally wrestling around with my little siblings counts. I don't think that counts, though. None of us were ever _really_ trying to hurt each other. Why would we?

Why would we? I can't keep asking myself that about the Games. The _why_ isn't important. If I keep focusing on the _why_ , I'll never be able to do what I have to do. Because the simple answer behind _why_ we're doing this is "because the Capitol said so." It's an answer I hate – having to do something simply because someone in authority said so without having an actual reason. But I'm going to have to put that aside if I want to win.

 _Win._ When you put it like that, it sounds so much simpler, so much easier, so much more _fun._ It sounds like a game. It's almost enough to make you forget what winning _means_. That winning their Game means fighting. Killing. It means blood on your hands. It means living with the fact that twenty-three other tributes died instead of you. I … I don't know if I can do that.

 _So don't focus on that._ Okay. Okay. I wrap my arms around my younger siblings. "It'll be okay," I reassure them. "I'm coming back. Just like last year – remember. One of us gets to come home. And it's going to be me."

 _It's going to be me._ That's probably a lie. But that lie is enough to keep the youngest, Digit, from bursting into tears. "Will we get to see you on television?" Isaac asks, brightening a little.

There we go. Focus on that. "You sure will." I ruffle his hair a little. "And there will be lights and fancy costumes and delicious food."

"I wish I was going with you," Digit mumbles.

 _No, you don't._ That's what I want to say. But I don't. I can't. Does he even remember what happened last year? Probably not. We tried our best to keep the youngest away from the screen. Most of us weren't really sure what was going to happen. If the Games were even going to be successful. But they were. And they were shorter than any of us thought. Four days. Four days, and twenty-three of the tributes were dead. One was still alive.

But the one who survived – Maverick … he was younger than me. Smaller than me. Skinnier and poorly fed and desperate. If _he_ could do it…

Then maybe I have a chance. And that's what the Capitol's counting on. That's what keeps us from rioting at the very thought of the Games. The knowledge that, yes, each of us _does_ have a chance. But also knowing that anything we do – any stupid word or action that even _hints_ of rebellion against the Capitol – can ruin that chance.

So I have to play along – just like the rest of them. Just like most of the tributes – even the ones with ties to the rebellion – tried to do last year. In that sense, I'm luckier than most. I don't have anything to hide. No family secrets. No hidden rebels in my family tree. Our reluctance to get involved saved us during the war, and it might save me again. Maybe.

But it's still up to me. _I'm_ still the one who's going to have to do what my family tried desperately to avoid doing during the war. I'm going to _have_ to get involved. To fight. To kill. There were a few tributes last year who tried to avoid fighting. And they died. They all died. And I will, too, unless I prove I'm willing to do what has to be done.

But am I?

Far too soon, the Peacekeepers come to take my family away, along with Rick's, leaving the two of us alone. I glance over at him. He smiles a little. "Quite a large family you've got there."

He's right. Is he trying to be comforting? Remind me that, even if I don't come home, at least my parents have five other children? Maybe he's trying to be kind – and maybe that's good for them – but … well, that doesn't help _me._ I'm not really used to thinking about that – what's going to help me and not the rest of them, too – but it's what I'm going to have to do if I want to have a shot at winning this.

Or maybe … maybe he was simply saying that I have a good reason to come back home. A reason to try my hardest to come back to them. I have so many people who would miss me if…

I swallow back the lump in my throat. _If I die._ That's how that sentence was going to end. Because that's the other option. Either I'm going to win, or I won't. One person wins. Twenty-three don't. So the odds aren't exactly in my favor. Or anyone's. Even if I try my hardest, even if I'm willing to fight, the math says that I'm probably going to die.

Rick scoots a little closer to me. "I just wanted to thank you – for what you said onstage."

I freeze. What _did_ I say? Whatever it was, I probably wasn't thinking clearly. Fortunately, Rick decides to elaborate. "You said, _It'll be okay._ And, well, I know it won't, but … it was a nice thing to say."

It was. It was nice. But I can't afford to be nice. Not anymore. I can't let that be the way they see me. The way _he_ sees me. I shake my head. "What makes you think I meant it'll be okay for you?" But even _saying_ that sounds wrong. It doesn't sound like me. Doesn't sound like the person I _want_ to be. But maybe it sounds like the person I'll _have_ to be in order to survive.

But Rick doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, chances are it won't be okay for either of us. We're both going to die – more likely than not, at least. Only one person's going to beat the odds – and, to be frank, you seem more _even_ than _odd_ to me."

I'm not sure whether I should roll my eyes or laugh. We could be dead in a few weeks, and he's making lame puns. But … well, why not? If we're going to die soon, then we might as well enjoy whatever time we have left. I start to laugh a little.

But something stops me. Because that's not what I want. I don't _want_ to just enjoy the time I have left. I don't _want_ to die in a few days. And just saying that I might as well enjoy it while I can … it sounds a little too much like giving up.

And I don't want to give up. I don't want to be just another tribute. Just one more casualty from District Three. One more sacrifice to the Capitol in the name of keeping the peace. I don't _want_ to die in the Games. But the moment I start focusing on just _enjoying_ whatever time I have left … what if _that's_ the moment I've really lost?

No. I clench my mouth shut before I can laugh anymore at his stupid joke. It wasn't even funny. _He's_ not funny. None of this is funny. This is serious – _deadly_ serious – and the only way I'm going to make it out alive is if I _don't_ treat this as a game. I can't afford to take this lightly – not for a moment. Not if I want to live.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

The idea of the reaping isn't nearly as frightening this time. Last year, no one knew quite what to expect. Would the Capitol really choose people at random rather than targeting the rebels specifically? Would the tributes really fight each other like they were expected to? Would the Games go the way the Capitol wanted them to?

The answer to all of those questions, of course, was _yes_. For the most part, the reapings seemed fair. Sure, some rebels were chosen, but so were some loyalists. And of the more rebellious tributes, two were volunteers, eliminating that element of chance. The tributes, for the most part, did as they were told – and those who didn't were eliminated. And as far as the Games going the Capitol's way – well, their first Victor ended up being the thirteen-year-old son of two fallen loyalist soldiers. Not bad for their image of the Games as an opportunity to make amends for the rebellion.

Amends. As if anything can really make amends for what the rebels did. For the damage they caused. Nothing's been the same since the rebellion. My father and I have been working overtime at the train station, making sure everything gets organized and shipped on time. But we always seem to be behind. The rebellion set the whole _country_ three years behind. Nothing can make up for that.

And what did they accomplish – these rebels with all their hopes and dreams? Nothing. At the end of the war, no one was better off than at the start. And most of us came out worse. Some of us a _lot_ worse.

I was lucky. My family sided with the Capitol. We'd always been rather well-off, so we had no reason not to. My mother and father did their duty – my father in the station, making sure Capitol shipments arrived on time and intact, my mother in the factories, working hard to produce the parts needed for the Capitol's vehicles, their trains, their hovercrafts. Their jobs kept them off the front lines, and, for that, I'll always be grateful. When I was old enough, I joined my father at his work, and, if nothing goes wrong, I'll take over his job someday.

 _If nothing goes wrong._ Like, say, being picked for a fight to the death. But the odds of that are slim. As slim as I can hope for, considering my name is in six times simply because I'm seventeen. But I didn't have to take tesserae – not like most of the kids in District Six – so I have that going for me, at least. It's only six slips. Six out of thousands. It's only a small chance.

But it's still a chance. Still a slim chance that _I'll_ be the one in the Games this year, fighting for my life. My father squeezes my shoulder gently as the three of us – my father, my mother, and I – head for the square. "Are you all right?"

I nod as confidently as I can. "Sure. Just like last year, right?" We were all nervous then, too, but everything turned out all right. The three of us went home, and tried to ignore the Games as much as we could. District Six's tributes didn't do particularly well. The boy died shortly after the start of the Games, trying to climb one of the maze walls and escape from the arena. The girl lasted a little longer, but only managed to kill a little thirteen-year-old boy before being killed herself and placing twelfth. Not exactly an example our tributes this year will want to follow.

Our escort, however, doesn't seem the least bit deterred by District Six's lack of success last year. And why should she be? It's been a whole year. There's no reason to think that this year's tributes will be anything like last year's. A new year. A new Hunger Games. As long as I'm not the one she picks…

I can't help watching her – our escort, Maia – as I take my place with the other seventeen-year-olds. She's already onstage, a smile on her face and her hair dyed a rather startling shade of green. Does she really appreciate the power that she has? Whichever two children she picks – their lives will be changed forever, even if one of them survives. Their families will never be the same.

And yet, that power … it's not really hers, either. It belongs to the Capitol. Because she's merely a pawn. She doesn't really have any say in which names she draws. Of course, come to think of it, neither does the Capitol – if the reaping is truly as random as they claim. All that power, all that control – it all lies with luck. With chance.

Not entirely, of course. The tesserae system the Capitol put in place this year skews the odds a little bit. But it skews them in our favor. In favor of those who work hard enough to make an honest living, who don't have to rely on the Capitol to support them. Why should I have a problem with that?

I don't. Or, at least, I try not to. But the truth is, the fact that I'm more likely to live means that some other poor kid is more likely to die. I don't like that any more than anyone else would. But it's the way things are. And there's nothing I can do to change that. But even if I could … would I want to?

I shake the thought from my head as Maia makes her way to the microphone. She gives a little speech, then reaches into the first reaping bowl. Everyone goes quiet, but, for a moment, at least, I don't have to worry. Most of my friends are older – nineteen or twenty year olds I work with at the station. I can't really think of any girls I know who might be chosen…

"Elinor Siesto!" Maia calls enthusiastically. The eighteen-year-old section quickly parts around a girl who towers over most of them. She's six feet tall, at least, with long, red hair that hangs down to her waist. She's blushing as she makes her way to the stage, and narrowly misses bumping into a few of the other teenagers on her way. Most of them have the sense to move out of her way, but she finally knocks one over just as she's made her way to the aisle.

I can't help a small smile. Maybe she's nervous. Maybe she's just clumsy. Or maybe she's trying to make an impression – knocking over people on her way to the stage, trying to prove that she doesn't care. Maybe she wants us to know that District Six has a better chance this year. And maybe it _does_. She certainly looks strong – or, at least, healthy, which is more than can be said for many of the other options as I glance around the square.

Maia, for her part, is grinning as Elinor takes the stage. "Congratulations, my dear. And now for the gentlemen!" I clench my fists tightly as she reaches into the second bowl and draws a slip. _Only six slips. I only have six slips. There are so many in there…_

"Jae Park!" I can't help a sharp breath as the crowd parts around me. Six slips. And it didn't matter. None of it mattered – the tesserae, the extra slips, the fact that my name was only in the bowl six times. None of that made a difference. She picked me, anyway.

It takes me a moment to realize that my legs are moving. That I'm already walking towards the stage. Okay. Okay, just think. If Elinor wanted to make an impression, then maybe I should do the same. Or maybe … maybe I should do the opposite. If I end up competing with her for the spotlight, I could lose. I would _probably_ lose. But if I let her have it…

I take the stage quietly, taking the steps one by one, holding my hand out to Elinor before Maia can even instruct us to shake hands. Doing what I'm supposed to – but _only_ what I'm supposed to. No flair. No flourish. Elinor shakes my hand firmly, and the Peacekeepers step forward to take us to the Justice Building.

And that's it. The crowd starts to leave as soon as we turn our backs. Anxious to get back to their lives. To forget about us. About everything that's about to happen.

I don't blame them for that. Not really. I would be doing the same thing, if I hadn't been chosen. I would head home with my parents – just like I did last year – and be grateful that I'd been spared. I wouldn't give much thought to the two unfortunate tributes until it came time to watch them die in the Games.

But this year is different. _I'm_ one of the unfortunate tributes. And if I'm going to survive, the Games are going to need my full attention. I glance over at Elinor as the two of us are led to the Justice Building. She's looking straight ahead. Maybe she's trying not to cry. Maybe she's just ignoring me.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Because, the moment my name was called, I had to put aside the fact that she looked like she might make District Six's chances a little better this year. If I'm going to win, she has to die. It's as simple as that. From this moment on, she's competition. Nothing more.

* * *

 **Elinor Siesto, 18  
** **District Six**

For once, they're completely silent. For the first time in … well, as long as I can remember, my parents – who always seem to have something to say, something to ask – can't seem to find the right words. Or any words at all. It would almost be refreshing, if it weren't for the circumstances. All the little things that they've bothered me about in the past, all the details they've wanted me to be more open about – none of that seems important now. None of it matters. The only thing that matters now is whether or not I'm going to come home.

And they clearly don't want to talk about that. Not that there's much to say, I suppose. All over Panem, the same conversation is happening. In family after family, district after district. The tributes' families are begging them to try their best to come home. The tributes are promising that they will. Empty promises. Promises that twenty-three of them – twenty-three of _us_ – aren't going to be able to keep.

So I don't promise. And they don't ask. Maybe I was never as open or as talkative as they may have wanted, but they know I wouldn't lie to them. Not now. There's no reason to lie. No reason to pretend that everything is going to be okay. That won't make anything better.

But neither will sitting around and moping about it. Which is why, if I'm being honest, I'm getting a bit impatient with all this waiting. What are we supposed to say that we haven't already said? If, after eighteen years, I didn't know that they loved me, it would be a little late now.

And I do know it – that they love me, that is. Maybe we've never been particularly close, but I've never had any reason to doubt that they care about me. That they would do anything they could to protect me. When the rebellion broke out, both of them stayed loyal to the Capitol – in part, I know, out of fear of what might happen to me if they joined up with the rebels.

And that fear was well-founded. How many children have been left orphaned by the war? How many were left to take care of their own younger siblings after their parents ran off to play soldiers? How many teenagers were left to pick up the pieces left behind by the people who were supposed to protect us?

Too many. Far too many. But, thanks to my parents, I wasn't one of them. They've always been here to look after me. I've had to pull my own weight, of course. Once I was old enough to take on a job after school, I began training with the local blacksmith. My income, along with my parents' jobs in the factories, helps keep the three of us fed. Maybe we're not the close-knit family that everyone dreams of, but we keep each other alive – and I'm grateful for that.

Or, at least, I was. Until now. Now, there doesn't seem to be anything to be grateful for. I was just picked for a fight to the death. In a week or two, I could be dead. That rather dwarfs anything that came before, or might have come afterwards. School, work, my family – all of that gets left behind here in District Six. I'm a tribute now. That's _all_ I am – or, at least, all I am to most people watching the Games. That's the only thing that matters now.

But, along with that terrible realization, there's a strange sense of … clarity, I guess. I know what I have to do. There's no question. No choice. No debate about what's going to happen next. Twenty-four of us are going into the Games. Only one person is coming out. And if I want that one person to be me, I know what I have to do.

Knowing it and actually _doing_ it, of course, are two very different things. I've never really been in a fight. Certainly never thought about _killing_ anyone before. I'm rather in shape from my job, and I suppose I'm more healthy than some of the tributes I'll be in the arena with. I'm older than most of them, and probably bigger, too. But none of that means a damn thing if I'm not willing to do what has to be done.

It wasn't the biggest or strongest tribute who won last year, after all. It wasn't the healthiest or the smartest or the most creative. It was the tribute who knew what he had to do and did it without any fuss. There were tributes who hesitated. Who shied away from the thought of killing. Who didn't take the chance to kill when they had it. But they didn't win. The boy who won was a killer – plain and simple. And that's what I'll have to be.

It's almost a relief when the Peacekeepers come to collect our families. My parents hug me one last time, then obediently follow the Peacekeepers out the door. Still unwilling to do anything that might put me in harm's way. Disobeying the Peacekeepers, after all, could have some rather messy results.

Apparently, Jae's family knows that, too. They follow the Peacekeepers, as well, leaving the two of us alone in silence. I can't help tapping my fingers on the chair. It's over. No one else is coming. I don't exactly have many friends. And Jae doesn't seem to be expecting anyone else, either. So why don't they simply get on with it?

They have a schedule to keep, I suppose. A set time that the train is supposed to leave. But it sees like ages before Maia finally comes to get us, a smile on her face and her green hair bouncing up and down like some sort of animal atop her head. I can't help a small smile as I watch her. Sure, we're about to go to what might very well be our deaths, but at least there will be a little entertainment along the way.

But, for most of the Capitol, _we're_ the entertainment – the twenty-four of us tributes who they watched being reaped today. We're just pieces to them – pieces in the Game we're about to play. They might dress us up and celebrate what we're doing, but we don't really matter to them. We don't really matter to _her_ – the funny Capitol woman who seems so entertaining now. She doesn't seem to care that the two tributes from District Six died last year. That at least one of us – and maybe _both_ of us – is going to do the same this year.

I suppose that makes sense. Anyone who really _cared_ , after all – anyone who objected to the idea of taking children to their deaths – probably wouldn't sign on as an escort in the first place. Why would anyone volunteer for a job they knew they were going to hate?

There are some good reasons, I suppose. Plenty of people in District Six don't like their jobs in the factories or in the stations, after all. But they're working to support their families. From what I've seen of the Capitol, it doesn't seem like most of them even _work_. How do they _live_ , then – these seemingly carefree people who live such lavish lifestyles and somehow have all the time in the world to indulge in food and drink and every sort of fashion? Where does all that money come from?

 _That's not important._ It's not like I was going to _ask_ her, anyway. Whenever I try to start a conversation about something trivial like that, it always seems to come out wrong. So I avoid small talk as much as I can. And, most of the time, that's fine. People who come into our blacksmith shop don't usually want to chat. They're busy. They know _we're_ busy. We respect each other's time, and everything works out.

Same idea here. Respect each other's time. Acknowledge what we're all here to do. Jae and I are here to fight. Maia is here to … what? Help us? Maybe. Or maybe she's just here to have fun. I'm still not entirely sure what these escorts are supposed to be doing. Some of them seemed to want to help their tributes last year, but quite a few of them didn't seem to care whether their tributes lived or died. Which sides does Maia fall on?

I suppose I'll find out – and probably sooner rather than later. The three of us make our way to the train and board without any incident. Maia instantly starts showing us around. Tables stacked with more food than we could eat. A closet with all the clothes we could want. Couches. Beds. A screen for … what? Watching the other reapings? I suppose that makes sense. Maybe it's a good idea to see what we're up against.

What _I'm_ up against. There is no _we_. We're not a team – Maia and Jae and me. Jae is competition. And Maia … If she wants to help, fine. If not, then she's just a distraction. A distraction from what I'm really here to do. What I _have_ to be here to do, if I want to come home.

And I _do_ want to come home. Maybe my life in District Six isn't particularly spectacular. Maybe I don't have a lot of friends or a family I'm particularly close to. But I have my job, and I have a future here. Or, at least, I did. Whether I still do … I guess I'll find out.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

It doesn't seem like a whole year has passed. A year since my friends and I stood together in the square last year, hoping not to be picked. None of us were – Jessa, Jackson, or me. Instead, we watched as a girl and a boy no older than I was at the time were called to their deaths. They both did well in the Games – the boy, Kennedy, placed seventh, and the girl came second. But that didn't matter. _Doesn't_ matter. They're both dead. And the boy who killed them – _both_ of them – is still alive.

And we did nothing – none of us. We just watched. Silent. Unmoving. Heartbroken, to be sure. Disgusted, maybe. But, overall, simply grateful. Grateful that it wasn't us. That _we_ hadn't been chosen to fight to the death. I did nothing. My friends did nothing. District Eight did nothing.

So the Games continue, and here we are again. Hoping. Wishing. Silently pleading for it not to be us. I glance over at Jessa and Jackson as we make our way to the square. This time, my name is in the bowl five times. Jessa's name is in six times, Jackson's seven. None of us had to take tesserae, which is something, I suppose. None of our families are what you might call _wealthy_ , but we've always been able to get by.

Even the war didn't change that. My family runs a fabric shop, and, even during war – maybe _especially_ during war – people still need clothes. So our business was safe. Productive, even. We stayed away from the fighting, refusing to take sides but still selling to anyone who visited our shop. And, together, we made it through the war. Jessa and Jackson's families did, too. None of us lost anyone particularly close to us. And that's something to be grateful for, too, I suppose. The war didn't really change our family.

And, on the surface, our district is very much the same, as well. Factories still run. People still work. We still go to school. There may be a few more people living on the streets than before, a few buildings that are still being rebuilt, but, on the surface, not much has changed.

But only on the surface. If you dig a little deeper, something has definitely been lost. During the rebellion, there was an energy – almost like the hum of a motor – barely hidden beneath the surface, just out of sight. There was _hope_. Maybe only a small glimmer of hope – a faint, foolish hope that maybe the rebels would succeed. Maybe life would be better. Maybe it was dim, but it was there. And it kept us going.

Now that energy, that hope, that little _hum_ of activity – it's gone. We still go to school. We still go to work. Jobs still get done. People still come into our shop to buy, and we still sell … but there's something missing. Something that was taken from us – _ripped_ from us – when the Capitol decided that the best punishment for the rebellion was to punish _children_.

And now, on reaping day, it's worse than ever. There's an energy in the square, to be sure, but it's a different sort of energy. Fear, dread, anxiety – it's all there, just below the surface. Just behind people's eyes. But they don't show it. _We_ don't show it. We're all afraid, but sometimes the best thing – the _only_ thing – to do is to ignore it and move on.

Especially when there's nothing we can really do about it. Yes, what's about to happen today is horrible. Yes, it means two more children will probably be dead in a few weeks – and even more if you count the tributes from other districts. But there's nothing we can do about it. Nothing except hope that it isn't us.

We've been lucky so far – our family. But that's no guarantee that we'll continue to get lucky. Nothing is certain – even though my chances are as slim as I could hope for. Two fifteen-year-olds were picked last year, so I'm under no delusion that, at sixteen, I'm safe. And younger tributes were picked from other districts. There were even a few twelve-year-olds last year – along with the thirteen-year-old who won the whole thing. _No one_ is safe. _Nothing_ is certain.

I take a deep breath as Jessa, Jackson, and I make our way to our separate sections. _Breathe._ Just breathe. If they pick me, then I need to look like I'm ready. Like I'm prepared. Like I believe I have a chance of doing better than last year's tributes.

The crowd goes silent as our escort, Eve, takes the stage. There's a small smile on her lips – as if she's actually happy to be back in District Eight after a year in the Capitol. "Hello, everyone." Her voice is soft and sweet – like a grandmother's, perhaps. But that doesn't change what she's here to do. She's here to choose two children for a death match. No amount of sweet-talking and sugar-coating can change that.

But, on the other hand, it certainly doesn't hurt, and the crowd seems to relax a little as she gives a short speech about how brave and how noble last year's tributes were. It's a load of crap, but at least it sounds good. It makes being a tribute seem a _little_ less scary. After all, if last year's tributes could be so brave…

But they weren't brave. Not really. They were terrified. Desperate. Fighting for their lives. They lasted until the last day of the Games, yes, but not because they were braver or stronger or better fighters than the other tributes. They lasted that long because they got lucky, and because they were willing to do what had to be done. The boy – Kennedy – killed a little twelve-year-old girl who was trying to steal his food. The girl – Neblina – killed a dying girl she came across mostly by chance.

And, until the last day, that was it. They laid low. They stayed out of sight. They didn't outmaneuver or overpower the other tributes; they _outlasted_ them. And maybe there's nothing wrong with that, but there's nothing particularly _brave_ about it, either. They stayed away from the worst of the fighting – just like my family did during the war.

But even that didn't save them. They still died. And for all Eve's talk about courage and honor, the truth is that she's still standing alone onstage this year, while the boy from District One is alive. Courage didn't save them. Luck didn't save them. So what makes her think it will save one of her tributes this year?

Finally, she heads for the first reaping bowl. I clench my fists tightly. _Not me. Not Jessa._ As long as it's not either of us…

"Lacey Blair." The words are soft and gentle – almost apologetic – as they leave her lips. But that doesn't change the fact that she called my name. _My_ name. My heart is racing as I take a step forward. Eve smiles a little as her gaze finds mine. I swallow back the lump in my throat and smile back as well as I can. I take another step towards the stage. Then another. Up the stairs. I can only hope that I look calm. That maybe I even look like I'm _okay_ with being here.

But my mind is racing. She picked _me_. _I'm_ going to be in the Hunger Games. I'm a tribute. I'm going to be fighting for my life in a few days. There is _no_ part of this that's okay. No part of me that's happy to be here.

It's all I can do not to cry as Eve gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before heading for the second bowl. I swallow hard. _Not Jackson. Just not Jackson. Anyone else._ I couldn't handle that – going into the Games with someone I know. Having to watch them die – maybe even having to kill them myself. The thought of killing _anyone_ makes my stomach churn, but killing _him_ … no, I couldn't do that.

"Atleigh Chaplin." The two words send a little shudder of relief through me. At least it's not Jackson. He's safe. Safe from the Games forever. But, as the crowd parts around the boy, my stomach starts to churn again. The boy who steps out of the twelve-year-old section is small. Thin. And … laughing. It takes me a moment to realize that he's actually _laughing_ as he makes his way to the stage. And not just a nervous little giggle – an actual _laugh_. I can't help staring. I mean, trying to look brave is one thing. But treating the Games like they're a _joke_ … that's not going to help him. Is it?

But he doesn't seem to care. He's still laughing uncontrollably as he holds his hand out to me. His hand is trembling, but so is mine. He's probably just as scared as I am. Maybe even more. Maybe we just have different ways of dealing with it. I take his hand as gently as I can and shake it, giving his hand a little squeeze before letting go.

The crowd, on the other hand, isn't sure quite what to make of his outburst, and starts to disperse almost immediately. But neither of us really mind. The sooner people stop watching, the better. Eve lays a hand on each of our shoulders and guides us gently in the direction of the Justice Building. "It's okay," she says softly.

It's not. It's not okay. But she probably said the same thing to the tributes last year. And she'll say the same thing next year – and the next. We're just two more tributes – nothing more. Next year, there will be more of us. And the next, and the next. There will always be more.

* * *

 **Atleigh Chaplin, 12  
** **District Eight**

It's a while before I can stop laughing. Not that I'm really trying all that hard. Everyone keeps looking at me – the family and friends who have come to say goodbye to Lacey. But that doesn't matter. It's never mattered.

Most of my 'family' isn't coming. They can't. Can't have the great Coelom St. John's being seen coming to say goodbye to the housekeeper's son. No, that would raise questions. Questions he wouldn't want to answer. He's a married man, after all – with two _real_ children of his own, and a third on the way. They're planning to call the next one Atlee. As if he was already trying to replace me. I hope the baby's stillborn.

Not that he ever really acknowledges me, anyway. Not in any way that matters. He's provided for Mommy and me, of course – but only because she threatened to expose his secret if he didn't. Blackmailing one of the most powerful men in District Eight – even I have to admit that took guts.

She did it for me, of course – to make sure that I would have a future, rather than growing up to work in one of the factories that 'Daddy' owns. But whatever that future was – whatever it _might_ have been – it's gone now. If I die, none of that matters. And if I live, we'll never need to rely on him and his wealth again.

That's why he hasn't come to see me, of course – aside from the obvious reason of saving his image. He's probably hoping I'll die. If I come back, after all, Mommy and I will have no more reason to keep his secret. We can expose him for the cheating bastard he is. Lydia – his wife – will be furious. His children will grow up knowing what a monster their father is. And Mommy and I – we'll be free to do as we please.

But only if I win. He probably figures he doesn't have to worry about that. I'm only twelve, after all. Probably the youngest tribute in the arena. But last year's Victor was only a year older than me. Every tribute he killed – three of them – was at least a few years older than him. There's no reason to think I won't be able to do the same.

Just being _able_ to kill, of course – or even being _willing_ to kill – isn't enough. I'm not stupid enough to think I'll stand a chance against any of the others in a fair fight. Maverick was clever – and he got lucky. I'll have to be clever, too, if I'm going to stand a chance of coming home.

It's a little while before Mommy arrives. Maybe she was trying to convince Daddy to come. Or at least Asa, maybe. But it's better that it's just her, rather than that little terror of a half-brother. And bringing the other one – Coelom Jr. – would just be pointless. He's barely a year old. If I die, he won't even remember me. And if I live, he certainly won't care about whether he was brought to say goodbye.

No, it's better that it's just Mommy. Just the two of us, like it should be. She wraps me in her arms and holds me close, and, for a while, we just sit here, soaking in each other's presence for what could very well be the last time.

I'm not kidding myself. Even if I get very lucky, there are still twenty-three other tributes who are going to be trying to kill me. One of them might very well succeed. I could be dead in a matter of weeks. But even that … that thought brings with it just a hint of excitement. The stakes of this game – they're real. This isn't something I would ever have chosen for myself, but now that I'm here … well, what do I have to lose? I might as well play their Game as well as I can.

"Now, you listen to your escort," Mommy says encouragingly. "Last year's tributes came close, remember. She must have been doing something right."

I nod along. If it makes her feel better, I'll pretend I'm going to listen to what our escort says. But the truth is, once we're in the Games, there's really nothing she can do. The escorts are just as helpless as everyone else watching the Games. Maybe she gave last year's tributes some really good advice beforehand. But I doubt it.

Because what could she have said, really? Last year's tributes didn't do anything particularly spectacular. They just stayed away from the fighting a bit longer than everyone else. And it isn't as if I wasn't planning to do that, anyway.

Mommy holds me a little tighter. Maybe she just felt like she had to say _something_. Everyone always wants to say something. Something sweet and encouraging. Something that will make the situation better. But there are times when _nothing_ can make it better. There's nothing she can say that will change the fact that I'm headed for the Capitol to take part in a death match. Nothing can make that sound good.

After a few more minutes, the Peacekeepers come. Mommy leaves, along with Lacey's family. For a moment, there's silence. I start pacing the room. Tapping my fingers on my leg. "Why don't they just come to get us?"

It's not until Lacey responds that I realize I've said it out loud. "I don't know why you're so eager to get going."

I shrug. "You'd rather stay here – just the two of us, alone in this room? We're supposed to kill each other, you know. What makes you think I won't try to get a head start on the others?"

She backs up a little. Good. Any ideas she might have had that I'm just a harmless little kid – they're gone now. Maybe I'm not as strong as the other tributes. But I can be just as dangerous. Last year's Games proved that. Younger tributes can still be deadly.

Lacey can't help a quiet sigh of relief as Eve finally comes to take us to the train. We both follow her without question. What else are we supposed to do? If we were going to run, we should have done so earlier. Now, there are Peacekeepers watching the three of us as we make our way to the train.

It's a short walk, and, soon, we're aboard. Lacey and I both look around, surprised. I mean, sure, I thought Daddy's house was luxurious. And it's definitely better than what most people in District Eight are used to. But this … this makes even Daddy's house look like the run-down apartment buildings that most of the residents of District Eight live in. There are decorations everywhere, and food everywhere else. Everything looks so comfortable. I plop down immediately in one of the more inviting-looking couches.

Eve smiles a little. "That's the idea. Just make yourselves at home. We'll be here for a while, so you might as well enjoy it."

 _Might as well enjoy it._ She leaves the next three words unspoken, but they're still there, hanging in the air. _While you can._ We might as well enjoy it while we can. Might as well soak in all we can of the luxury, the food, the clothes, the comfort … because once we're in the arena, we'll have none of it.

I close my eyes, letting that sink in. I'm not used to having _nothing_. Sure, Mommy and I aren't rich by any means – certainly not as rich as Daddy – but hes always made sure that we have enough to get by. The idea of not having enough – of being too cold or too hot at night, or of slowly dying of hunger or thirst … that's enough to snap me back to the moment. Back to what's really going on. These Games … they aren't just about who can fight the best. They're also a contest of who can survive the worst conditions and still be _able_ to fight.

Do I really think that's going to be me? I grew up with … well, maybe not everything I ever _wanted_ , but certainly everything I _needed._ Once I'm in the arena, will I really be able to fend for myself?

No. No, not alone. But most of the tributes last year didn't go into the arena alone. To my surprise last year, almost everyone ended up working with a partner or two. Even the girl from Eight, who started off alone, was working with the girl from Nine by the end. And the boy from Eight started off with the boy from Two and the girl from Three. If I can find enough other people who _do_ know what they're doing, maybe I'll be able to hide the fact that I don't.

For a little while, at least. Long enough to pick up on some of it myself. How hard can it be? Last year, there were weapons at the start of the Games, but also enough food spread throughout the arena to keep the tributes alive. Some of them found cactuses or snake eggs that kept them alive. Others ended up eating bark and leaves. The girl from Two killed a panther mutt for its meat. A few even received packages at the end of the day. Sure, there were some who were pretty hungry by the end, but no one actually _died_ of hunger in the _Hunger_ Games. Rather disappointing, once you think about it.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe the point of calling it the Hunger Games wasn't that the hunger would _kill_ you. Just that it would drive you to do stupid things – like try to steal from a tribute who's clearly stronger, or run out onto a marsh without testing to see if it would hold your weight. Both happened – and both got tributes killed. As long as I don't make any stupid mistakes…

That's not enough, of course. It's not enough to simply not make any mistakes. But it's certainly a start. And, right now, a start is all I need.

* * *

 **And that wraps up our reapings. Now that you've met all the tributes, there's a poll up on my profile asking which ones are your favorites. Feel free to vote for your own, but please don't _only_ vote for your own. If your own tribute(s) are the only one(s) you like, we're doing something wrong.**

 **Please note: this poll will _not_ determine who the Victor is, or where tributes will place in the Games. There will be a poll later that _will_ have a small effect on the Games. We'll let you know when. This one is mostly to give us some idea of who people like and who might need a little more of a chance to shine in the next few chapters. **

**Speaking of the next few chapters, here's the plan: We're planning on twelve pre-Games chapters, with a total of four POVs for each tribute. Each tribute will get a POV during either the train rides, chariot prep, or chariot rides. Another during training. Another during either private sessions, training score announcements, or interviews. And one either the night before the Games, the morning of the Games, or during the launch. So, basically, the same format as last time. And that'll take us to the Games.**

 **Lastly, if you have any particular alliance you'd like for your tribute(s), please let us know. We've been bouncing around some ideas of our own, but we're always open to suggestions.**


	9. The One Thing

**The One Thing**

" _I am the one thing in life I can control."_

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

It takes all the control I have not to immediately stuff every bit of food I can see into my mouth. Everything at the table looks delicious. I don't even bother filling one of the plates that sits in front of me. I simply choose one of the largest pieces of cake and take a bite. Then another. It tastes so _good_. Even before the war, I'd never tasted anything like this. Since then, I've had to settle for whatever people are kind enough to offer, whatever I can manage to steal, or whatever I find thrown away outside of the shops. Needless to say, it's been a long time since my stomach has been full.

Maverick takes a seat next to me. "Slow. Take it slow." But I can't. Everything looks so inviting. Once I finish the piece of cake, I reach for some kind of fruity bread. Then a doughnut. Then a few of the muffins that are on the nearest plate. Only once I've finished four of those do I finally slow down a little. My stomach is starting to feel … full. And not just the somewhat satisfying feeling of having filled it with the best garbage I can find for the night. Actually _full_ of warm, delicious food.

Only then do I realize that they're all watching me. Ra is standing in the corner, a hint of a smile on his lips. Gloria is seated across from me, waiting – maybe waiting for me to take a breath. But Maverick – he's sitting next to me, smiling a little. But not the sort of smug smile that colors Ra's face. Maverick's smile is genuine. "Good, isn't it."

I swallow the last bite of one of the muffins, and manage to nod a little. "Yes. I've never…"

Maverick nods. "I know."

I can't help watching as he does the same – grabs a few muffins and begins eating. "Save a little room for dinner," Gloria advises. "And don't worry, dear. He did the same thing."

Dinner. I'd assumed _this_ was dinner. Silly, now that I think about it. Cake and cookies and muffins – I guess that's not really dinner. But after so many years of being content eating whatever I could find … well, _any_ food seems like dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch. Any concept I may have once had of what food is supposed to be eaten at what specific time – that's all gone. Has been for a long time.

But maybe … well, maybe that's a good thing. As my gaze follows Maverick, I can't help but think of how he looked last year. Scrawny and hungry and dirty – just like me. It helped him in the arena. He was used to dealing with the hunger. Used to going without. Maybe that will help me, too.

Finally, when I simply _can't_ eat any more, I lean back a little – and barely manage to stifle a cry. Gloria hurries over, and catches a glimpse of the blood that's dried to the back of my shirt. "Oh, dear. Why don't you come with me, and we'll get you cleaned up. Ra, Maverick, play nice – we girls will be back in a flash."

 _We girls._ As if I really have anything in common with her – this woman who seems delighted by the prospect of cleaning me up before sending me off to fight for my life. Maybe it's silly to hold that against her. She's just doing her job, after all. But I've spent the last two years routinely being arrested and whipped by people who are just _doing their jobs._ The fact that it's what they're supposed to do – that doesn't make it any better. That doesn't make it right.

But it's hard to be mad at Gloria when she leads me to a room with a large sink. She helps me out of my dirty clothes – little more than rags – and gently washes my back with a cloth. It stings, but I know better than to say so. She's doing the best she can. Hell, she's probably never _done_ this before. She applies some sort of medicine to the wounds, and, instantly, the pain is gone. "Thank you," I whisper, but I can barely hear my own voice. Everything is getting a bit fuzzy…

"Don't worry, dear – it's the medicine. It'll make you sleepy for a while, but don't fret. You can have dinner whenever you wake up." She half-carries me to a room with a bed. The softest bed I've ever felt. I smile a little as she helps me lie down. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all. I'm asleep before my head even reaches the pillow.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

It takes all my control not to shrink away as General Tyrone ushers us onto the train. "Have a seat anywhere you like." He gestures around the room. "There are some things we need to get out of the way." He takes a seat on one of the couches. I sink down into a chair on the opposite side of the room, part of me wishing I could sink down further and disappear from his sight. Aria shakes her head, crossing her arms. "I'd rather stand."

To my surprise, Tyrone simply shrugs. "Suit yourself. When you get to be my age, you won't pass up a comfortable seat."

Aria scoffs. "As if you really expect either of us to live to be your age. You just drew our names for a fight to the _death._ " Her tone is accusing, and I can't really blame her for that – I'm just as upset as she is – but is it really a good idea to antagonize such a powerful figure in the Capitol?

But Tyrone doesn't seem offended. "You're angry. That's understandable. And you're honest – that's even better. So be honest with me, Aria. Your brother Branden and your boyfriend Landon. Tell me what happened."

"As if you don't know. They were executed."

"For being rebel leaders."

"Yes."

"Were they?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Tyrone leans forward a little. "Aria, if they were in any way connected to the rebellion, I assure you the Capitol knows about it. It's better for me to know _now_ , rather than finding out halfway through the interviews. So I'll ask again – are you absolutely certain they had no part in the rebellion?"

"Absolutely."

There's a tense moment of silence, but, finally, Tyrone nods. "Then I am truly sorry for their deaths, Aria. Mistakes are made in war, but an innocent life lost is a tragedy."

"Like the Games?"

"Yes."

Clearly, that wasn't the answer she was expecting. "What?"

"Yes, the Games are tragic. I would not have been in favor of presenting them as a festival, a time for celebration. But that decision wasn't in my hands. What's about to happen to you – to _all_ of you – is regrettable … but it _is_ necessary in order to prevent a worse evil."

Aria looks like she wants to say something, but thinks better of it. Probably for the best. After a moment, Tyrone turns to me. I can feel my face growing warm. He knows. If he knew about Aria's brother and boyfriend, then he certainly knows about my father. But, unlike Aria, I can't claim he wasn't involved in the rebellion.

"My father fought in the war," I blurt out before he can ask.

There's a hint of a smile on Tyrone's lips. "So did I."

"I … I meant he fought for the rebels."

"I assumed as much. Did you?"

"What?"

"Did you fight?"

"I was eight when the war started."

Tyrone nods. "I'll take that as a no."

"Yeah, that's a no."

"Then I don't hold you responsible for what your father did. Just as I wouldn't hold Aria responsible for what her brother and boyfriend had done if they had, indeed, been involved."

"But last year's tributes—" Aria starts, saying what we were both clearly thinking.

"— _were_ involved," Tyrone finishes. "And I did my best to help them. But there was only so much that I could do. There is an element of chance to the Games, to be sure, but the Gamemakers have ways of ensuring that tributes who would make … dangerous Victors don't leave the arena alive."

He gives us a moment to let that sink in. He didn't list any specifics, but he didn't have to. The pedestal explosion that killed Memphis. The storm that injured Aubrey. The fact that the fire in the arena drove Maverick back towards Silver, where he killed her. None of those were coincidences. Maybe there were no coincidences at all. Maybe the Capitol got exactly the Victor they wanted.

"Why are you telling us this?" My voice is quiet. Shakier than I'd like. But what is he saying? That I'm already doomed because the Capitol wouldn't want the son of a rebel as their Victor?

Tyrone shakes his head. "I'm being honest. If you're determined to follow in your father's footsteps, there's nothing I can do for you. But if you can put whatever feelings you have towards the Capitol aside and focus on what you're meant to do here … then maybe I can help you. Both of you."

 _Put your feelings aside._ Can I do that? I can't control what my father did during the war. I can't control what the Capitol did to _him_. Maybe I can't even control my own feelings about that. But I _do_ get to choose whether I act on them. Whether I let them get in the way, or whether I can put them aside and get the job done. I nod a little. "I can do that."

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I didn't realize it would take this amount of control not to stare at my district partner. Not to ask him to explain as the three of us – Julian, Titus, and I – sit down in front of the screen to watch the other reapings. I take a seat beside Julian, trying to be polite. Trying not to give any indication that my stomach is churning every time I look. Every time I see his eyes – or where his eyes should be. I want to ask – to ask what happened to him. But is this the right time…?

Titus, on the other hand, isn't so concerned with Julian's feelings. He immediately takes a seat next to me, making it clear that he's already made a choice about who has a better chance in the Games. And, on some level, I understand. I'm the one who has a fighting chance. Since only one of us can win, why waste time with a contestant who's so clearly hopeless?

"So what's with the eyes, kid?" Titus asks. I'm not really sure whether that's better or worse. At least he's showing some sort of interest in Julian, but if it's something he doesn't want to talk about…

Julian shrugged. "Some guys thought I looked better without them, I guess."

Titus raises an eyebrow. "You were in a fight?"

Julian chuckles a little. "If you want to call it that, I suppose. Wasn't much of a fight. But, sure, if it'll look better for the Capitol, you can call it a fight. Makes me sound like I have a _little_ chance. Then again, it was clearly a fight I _lost_ , so I don't know what that says."

"That you're an idiot for volunteering?" Titus offers.

"Maybe," Julian admits. "But the alternative was worse."

The alternative. Letting his friend Clarence go into the Games. His friend – and, judging from their interaction when Clarence came to say goodbye, maybe _more_ than a friend. Letting his friend die seemed like a worse choice than volunteering for the Games himself.

I suppose that makes sense. It's the same reason I'm here, after all. Not for my friends, but for my family. For our honor, for our name. Is that really so different?

Yes. Yes, it is. There _is_ a difference. Because, unlike Julian, I actually have a chance at winning this. Titus shrugs and turns to me. "And you?"

He wants to know why I'm here. _Everyone_ will want to know why I'm here – especially after what happened to District Two's tributes last year. Why would anyone overlook that and volunteer anyway? I practiced what I would say – to the cameras, at least. But, now that I'm sitting here, none of that sounds right.

"I'm here because I can win," I say at last, and Titus nods. As if that's enough of an answer. As if ' _because I can'_ is a good enough reason for volunteering for what could possibly be my death. Suddenly, that answer sounds completely inadequate. "I've been training," I blurt out before I can think it through. Before I can worry about whether or not I should even be saying that in front of Julian. In front of my _competition._

Titus nods a little. "Training," he repeats. "Because you knew you wanted to volunteer?"

"Exactly. I've been getting up in the mornings to run. I've been taking harder jobs at work. I'm ready for this."

But am I? Am I really? Physically, yes, I'm as ready as I can be. As ready as any of us can expect to be. Sure, I've never been in a _fight_ , but I'm in good shape. And having been in a fight certainly isn't going to help Julian.

Titus smiles a little. I'm not sure if he's impressed or just amused. "Have you given any thought to what sort of person you might want to team up with?"

It's a question I was expecting eventually. Nearly every tribute last year ended up working with one or two of the other tributes. And that ended up helping most of them. Or, at least, helping them more than it hurt them. "I was thinking maybe a larger group," I answer at last. "Three or four of us – maybe even five or so. That way we won't make as tempting a target."

Titus shakes his head a little. "If that's the reason, don't bother. You're a loyalist from a Capitol-supporting district. You're going to be a target to the rebels no matter _what_ you do. But if you can find a few others who share the same ideas, others who are useful, others who … what's so funny, Julian?"

Julian is chuckling quietly. But he doesn't share the joke. Is he laughing at the fact that I want allies? Is he amused because I'll probably have my choice of allies, while he'll be lucky to find anyone who wants to work with him? Is he trying to make light of the fact that Titus is focusing on me? Or did he get a chuckle out of the fact that Titus assumed I'm a loyalist just because I'm from District Two?

It doesn't matter. _Shouldn't_ matter. He's as good as dead, anyway. But there's something about the way he's chuckling in the face of certain death that makes me wish he didn't have to die. But he does. They all do. And the only way I have a chance is if I accept that.

* * *

 **Elinor Siesto, 18  
** **District Six**

It's taking all my control not to punch our escort in the face – and, from the look on Jae's face as we sit down to watch the other reapings, he feels the same way. I'm sure Maia's nice enough in a normal situation. But this _isn't_ a normal situation. We've just been picked for a fight to the death. And she isn't exactly being helpful.

By that, of course, I mean that she isn't being helpful _at all._ As the first reaping begins to play, all she can comment on is how pretty the other escort – Gloria – looks. How lucky she is to have Maverick with her this year. She's right about that, at least. District One's tributes are lucky to have two people helping them. I'd trade Maia for just _one_ of them right about now. Maverick might have some good ideas about how to survive this. And apparently Gloria did _something_ right last year if she managed to bring him home.

Maia, on the other hand, doesn't seem all that interested in discussing strategy. Or finding allies. Or … well, anything, really. "Oh, poor dear," she croons when the first name is called and a scrawny-looking girl makes her way to the stage. And maybe it's only natural to feel sorry for her, but this _isn't_ natural. Nothing about the Games is natural. And if I'm going to make it through this, I can't afford to feel sorry for my opponents.

The boy looks a bit more promising, but all Maia seems to care about is his outfit. "What a lovely scarf," she gushes, and Jae rolls his eyes. I shake my head and scoot a little farther away from Maia on the couch. Towards Jae. Shit, I hope he doesn't take that the wrong way. I just want to get away from _her_.

Jae doesn't even seem to notice. His attention is focused on the screen. At least he's got the right idea. I wish _he_ was my escort and Maia was the person I might have to kill. No, that's not quite right. I wish _I_ was the escort and didn't have to kill _anyone._ But I do. And any information I might be able to glean between her giggling and sympathetic sighs might be the thing that saves my life.

District Two has two volunteers, which is … well, a bit surprising. Last year, the girl from Seven tortured the boy from Two to death. I didn't think anyone from their district would want to volunteer after _that_ happened. Then again, I can't quite wrap my mind around the idea that _anyone_ would want to volunteer. That someone would actually _want_ to be in the Games.

The girl, at least, seems confident. Healthy. Fit. Like she actually _wants_ to volunteer. The boy is a different story. He's blind, and once the camera zooms in on his face, I realize it's worse than that. His eyes are _gone_. He's volunteered for a friend – that much is clear as he and the boy whose name was called argue quietly before the boy – Julian – takes the stage. His friend clearly isn't happy with the arrangement, but doesn't manage to stop the blind boy from sacrificing himself.

I can't help a twinge of jealousy as the camera lingers on the pair of them. I wish someone had volunteered for me. But wishing for it – that isn't going to make things any better. I have to focus on what _is_ happening – not how I'd like things to be.

District Three's reaping proceeds without incident – a fifteen-year-old girl and a boy a few years older. Perfectly normal. _Normal_. It's a bit unnerving, how quickly the thought of all this has become normal. How quickly we've accepted that this is just how things are now. If I hadn't been the one chosen this year, I would have gone home without thinking twice about the poor tributes who had been chosen. They would die – and that's just the way things are now.

Another fifteen-year-old girl from District Four, along with a younger boy who's laughing as he takes the stage. District Five is even less remarkable, aside from the girl's rather fierce-looking expression. Then it's our turn. _District Six_ flashes on the screen, and I hear my own name called. See myself walking to the stage. Bumping into the other girl in the crowd, knocking her down. I didn't _mean_ to do it – I was just so distracted. So overwhelmed. I wasn't really looking…

But seeing it now – it almost looks _good_. Looks like I'm ready for a fight. And when Jae takes the stage next to me, at least we look prepared. As prepared as we can be. Maybe…

I glance over at Jae. Maybe if Maia isn't going to be of much help – to either of us – maybe we could at least help each other. Maybe I'll ask him later. After we finish watching the reapings. After I'm sure there aren't any better options.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

It takes all my control not to burst out laughing when June suggests we watch the reapings _again_. For a third time. What does she think we're going to see this time that we didn't last time, or the time before? For that matter, what makes her think that anything we see on this tape is going to be helpful? Why should this give us any idea how the other tributes are actually going to act in the arena?

Lexi, on the other hand, readily agrees – as she's agreed to everything June's suggested – so in the tape goes … again. Name after name. District after district. The reapings pass without many surprises. Actually, the most surprising thing isn't the tributes who were reaped – it's the ones who volunteered. Four of them. _Four._ Four teenagers actually thought that going into the Games was a good choice. I'd love to know what's going on inside their heads.

Actually, I probably wouldn't. Wouldn't want to know what's happened in their lives to make them think that the _Games_ are a better option than whatever they're facing. Maverick volunteered last year, after all – volunteered to escape a life on the streets. Is that what they're escaping – these four?

Maybe some of them. But the girl from Two – she seems a bit too healthy and fit to be living on the streets. And her district partner clearly didn't volunteer because he thought he had a chance at a better life. The girl from Ten, maybe – she's thin and has a rather wild look about her. But the boy from Eleven – no, he doesn't look like a street kid.

I shake my head, trying to turn my attention back to the screen. It doesn't matter why they volunteered. Why they're here. _Shouldn't_ matter, at least. But I can't help wondering. Wondering whether whatever desperate circumstances drove them to volunteer will give them more of a drive to win … or whether, when it comes down to it, they don't really want to go home because they don't have anything to go back to.

 _Anything to go back to._ But I do. I have my uncle. His shop. My work. But if I win … I won't have to work. _He_ won't have to work. What then? What would we even _do_ all day? Whatever Capitolites do, I suppose, when they're not busy watching children pummel each other to death. What _do_ they do?

"So what do you do?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

It takes June a moment to realize that I'm talking to her. She pauses the tape. "What do you do when? Here on the train? During training? During the Games?"

I shake my head. "No. Not what do _I_ do. What do _you_ do when you're not … well, doing this. When you're not dragging kids off to a death match."

She hesitates. Maybe because of the way I worded it. Maybe because my question seemed to come out of nowhere. But, after a moment, she answers. "I'm a cook."

"A cook?" Lexi repeats, taking her eyes off the screen for the first time in what seems like hours. "Really?"

Clearly, that wasn't the answer she was expecting. And I have to admit, I was assuming that the job of escorting tributes to the Games would go to people with a bit more … prestige. "So how'd you end up with this job?"

June smirks. "No one else wanted it."

Fair enough. After what happened to last year's escort, I can't exactly blame anyone who was a bit reluctant to give it a try. "And you did?"

"I've got a bit of a soft spot for any place that supplies us with seafood." I can't tell whether she's joking or not. "And I served here during the rebellion."

"You were a soldier?"

"I was a cook. Armies need to eat, too, you know."

"Did you…" For once, I hesitate. There's a part of me that doesn't want to ask. Maybe a part that doesn't want to know. But my curiosity gets the better of me. "Did you ever meet a Calvin or Jemima Brackish?"

June shakes her head. "Can't say I did. Your parents?"

"Father and sister. My mother and brother … they were on the other side."

June nods. "And you?"

I shrug. "As long as I can keep helping with that seafood you love so much, I don't really care one way or the other."

Lexi can't hide a look of surprise – as if she can't fathom the idea of being impartial. Of not caring about what happened during the rebellion. Makes me wonder what side _her_ family fell on. But June is smiling. "I think we're going to get along just fine after all."

* * *

 **Mantle Grimes, 15  
** **District Eleven**

It takes all my control not to shout at Lucius as he asks – for the third time – why I volunteered. Why _anyone_ would want to volunteer for the Hunger Games. It's obvious from his tone that he doesn't really care. That he doesn't really want to know what prompted me to volunteer. He just wants to make it thoroughly clear that he thinks it was a dumb move.

Not that I would tell him, anyway. Not that I would tell _anyone_ why I really volunteered. No, they don't need to know. All they need to know is that I'm here. I volunteered. I'm going into the Games. Everything has already been decided, and the train has been chugging along steadily for hours. There's no stopping it now. No going back. So why bother to ask for a reason?

To my surprise, Phoebe's also glaring up at Lucius as we take our places at the table. "Why does it matter?" she shoots back. "He's here. We both are. I wish someone had volunteered for me, too, but they didn't. We're the tributes you've got. Deal with it."

She has a point – about wishing someone had volunteered for her, too, that is. The boy I volunteered for was seventeen. Two years older than me. If I'd had the choice between taking his place or taking hers…

Which _would_ I have chosen? I'm not as sure as I'd like to be. I'd like to think that I would have chosen to take Phoebe's place. That I would have wanted to save the life of a younger, more helpless tribute – and leave the guy who actually had a chance. But another part of me – a part that's already thinking about how to _survive_ this – doesn't _want_ opponents who have a chance. If I want to win, after all, they have to die – all of them. So maybe it's better to be up against tributes who _don't_ really have a chance.

I turn my gaze from Phoebe and back to the plate of food in front of me. It doesn't matter. It doesn't really make any difference which one I would have chosen. I didn't have that choice. She didn't have any choice at all. But none of that matters now, because we're both here.

And so are twenty-two other tributes. We got a pretty good look at our competition earlier, when we watched the reapings. Lucius didn't seem all that interested, but Phoebe and I wanted to see what we're up against. There weren't too many surprises. Some tributes were older, some younger – although all of them were either older than Phoebe or the same age. Some looked like they might pose a threat, and others … well, didn't. There were three other volunteers – both the tributes from District Two and the girl from Ten. All three of them are older than me.

Lucius shrugs and turns his attention back to his dinner. He doesn't really care. It doesn't matter to him that we're the tributes he's stuck with. Just like it didn't matter last year when he chose a crippled boy and a fourteen-year-old girl. Our lives don't really matter to him.

So there's no reason he should matter to us. Phoebe and I ignore him for the rest of the meal. She doesn't seem to be much of a talker, but that's just fine as far as I'm concerned. Silence is fine. It's almost a relief, really. And it's certainly better than shouting. When dessert is brought out, she serves me the first slice of cake. She even volunteers to help clean the table before Lucius rolls his eyes and informs her it'll be taken care of.

She's trying to be helpful. Trying to be useful. Maybe she's trying to get on my good side. Trying to convince me to work with her. Most of the tributes last year ended up working with one or two of the others. The boy from our district – Aldous – ended up working with the girl from Six. And the girl from Eleven – Felicity … well, I'm not really sure who she was working with. She didn't get the chance, really. She was dead only a few minutes after the Games began.

Which is why I don't really want to work with Phoebe. She's sweet and all – and she means well – but that's exactly the problem. How long is she going to last once the Games actually begin? If I'm going to work with _anyone_ – and I'm not even sure I want to do that – then I want it to be someone who's going to be _useful_ … not just nice.

But I don't have the heart to tell her that. Not yet. After all, we're going to be on this train for a while. There's no harm in being friendly. Nothing wrong with getting to know each other.

All the same, I can't shake the thought from my head. The idea that there _is_ something wrong – something dangerous, even – about letting her get close. About getting attached. Because she has to die. And, already, I know that I don't want to be there to see that.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

It takes all my control to keep a smile on my face as Mel, Phoenix, and I finish watching the reapings. Tribute after tribute. District after district. I glance over at Mel, who's gone white as a sheet. As if it's beginning to sink in – just how many of the tributes are older and stronger than her. Just how much of a disadvantage she's already at.

But I can't afford to worry about that. Can't afford to care. She _has_ to die if I want to go home. I turn my attention to Phoenix. "So what do you think?"

It's a moment before she answers. "I think it's going to be a tough year … but I think one of you might be able to win this."

 _One of you_. A vague answer. A diplomatic answer. But, judging from the reapings, it's obvious which one of us she's talking about. I'm one of the older tributes. Mel is one of the youngest. But that doesn't mean I can simply ignore her chances. A thirteen-year-old won last year, after all…

"That's awful sweet of you." I give Phoenix's shoulder a gentle punch. "Any advice?"

Phoenix studies the two of us for a moment. "Last year, District Nine's tributes worked together, but…"

"—but you don't think that's such a good idea this year," Mel finishes.

Phoenix shakes her head. "To be honest, it probably wasn't such a great idea _last_ year, either. They got too close to each other, and when Peter died, Sienna was devastated. I don't want the same thing to happen to you – _either_ of you. Because, eventually, one of you is going to die."

She's not pulling any punches. That's good. I nod, and so does Mel. Apparently, she wasn't counting on working with me during the Games. Good. That way, I won't have to worry about disappointing her. So maybe it's best that we got that out of the way quickly. "So who _would_ you suggest working with?"

"People who won't draw too much attention," Phoenix suggests without a moment of hesitation. "You don't want to make yourself a target. Neither of you was particularly noticeable during the reapings, so—"

"What?" I gasp, feigning surprise. "We weren't noticeable?"

Phoenix sighs impatiently. "You did fine – both of you. I just meant that you didn't try to run, you didn't fight the Peacekeepers, you didn't yell at me—"

"I could if you want me to," I offer.

Phoenix glares. "You've made a good impression so far – with the _audience_ , at least. The other tributes have no reason to target you. Keep it that way."

Mel nods. And maybe that's not a bad strategy for her. The boy who won last year, after all, ended up working with the boy from Three, who was twelve years old and, to be honest, not all that noticeable. But am I really going to be able to avoid attention the same way? "Keep it that way," I echo. "Got it. It's just going to be difficult keeping this much raw talent and appeal in check."

Phoenix closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay. What do _you_ suggest, Mr. Demetrius?"

I can't help a chuckle, and quickly swing my arm around the back of the couch and onto her shoulders. "Oh, please, just Jim. I know we're just getting to know each other, but—"

"We're _not_ getting to know each other," Phoenix interrupts. "I'm trying to help you survive a fight to the death, and all you can do is make jokes about it!"

She's got a point. Maybe I'm overdoing it a bit. _Tone it down a little._ "I'm sorry." I shake my head. "I'm just … still trying to process all of this. I guess it hasn't quite sunk in that … that I could be dead in a little while."

Phoenix's expression softens a little. "I'm trying to make sure that doesn't happen – to either of you." But that last bit, it's obvious, is an afterthought. For better or worse, Mel is already taking Phoenix's advice. She's started blending into the background. And while that means she might not get targeted by the other tributes, it also means that she won't get as much attention. Phoenix is already focusing on me. Perfect.

Maybe I should feel guilty about that – taking up my escort's time, forcing her to ignore my younger district partner. But this is a fight to the death. Whether either of us likes it or not, Mel and I are competing for the same goal: survival. And I can't afford to feel guilty. I can't afford to think about what's best for her. I have to think about what's going to keep _me_ alive.

And, for now, like it or not, that means buttering up to Phoenix. I lower my arm a little around her shoulders, and, this time, she doesn't flinch away. "So who do you think would make a good partner in the Games?" I ask, giving her shoulder a little squeeze.

But, whoever I end up working with, I know my most important partner won't be in the arena with me. She'll be trying to keep me alive from outside. And maybe that's even better.

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 18  
** **District Ten**

I just have to control my temper a little longer. I roll over in my bed – a much more comfortable bed than I've ever slept in. But I still can't seem to fall asleep. I glance over at the clock on the dresser nearby. It's almost two in the morning – the day after the reaping. Which means it's my birthday.

I wonder if they know. They have to have some sort of record of people's birthdays, after all, in order to keep track of who's old enough to be eligible for the reaping – and who's too old. But I can't help but hope that no one knows. Or, at the very least, that no one mentions it. The last thing I need is to give them another reason to celebrate.

As if there's any reason to celebrate the fact that I'm eighteen. More likely than not, I won't make it to nineteen. So what difference does it make?

 _More likely than not._ What a silly way of thinking about it. Even if everyone's chances were even, I'd have a one-in-twenty-four chance of coming out of the arena alive. Dying would be twenty-three times more likely, even if everyone's chances were exactly the same.

But they aren't. If anything, I'm _more_ likely to die in the arena. The Gamemakers saw to it that Aubrey died last year. They sent a storm that crippled her and allowed the girl from Two to take her and her district partner down without much of a fight. They made sure that someone who had fought for the rebels didn't make it out of the arena. I have no reason to expect any different.

And yet here I am. I volunteered. I saved a girl's life. And I don't regret that. _Can't_ regret it. I spent so much of my life fighting, killing, destroying. The idea that I actually _saved_ someone … it feels good.

But I can't carry that feeling into the arena. I'm not going into the Games to save people. I'm here to get revenge on … someone. But who? It was the girl from Two who killed Aubrey. But the tributes from Two this year – they're not that girl. They have no connection to her or what she did. Sure, they both volunteered, but, hell, one of them is _blind._ He certainly didn't volunteer because he wants to kill.

No. No, he volunteered for the same reason I did. He was saving a life. And, whether anyone else knows it or not, I probably have the same chance of leaving this arena as that blind kid. Which is to say, no chance at all.

But if it's not revenge against _them_ that I want – and it isn't, not really – then who? I close my eyes. Sure, it was the girl from Two who killed Aubrey, but it wasn't really her doing. It was the Capitol's. The Gamemakers. But how can I hope to get revenge against them? What can I possibly do that would affect them?

Just as I'm beginning to finally drift off to sleep, however, there's a knock on the door. "Are you awake?" Darrin. Great. I could pretend to be asleep, I suppose, but he seems like the sort who would just keep knocking, anyway.

"I was," I grumble loudly. I wasn't, of course, but he doesn't need to know that. Doesn't need to know that I was having trouble falling asleep, too.

The door creaks open. "Sorry to bother you," Darrin apologizes. "But I couldn't sleep, and I just wanted to say … well, happy birthday."

Great. Just great. "Did Athena tell you?"

"What?"

"That it was my birthday?"

"No. It was on the tape."

"What tape?"

"The reapings. You know, down in the corner of the screen where it said how old the other tributes were. Their birthdays were there, too – in case you wanted to know just _how_ much older or younger the tributes were, who was the exact oldest or youngest, or something like that. And I just happened to notice that yours was today."

Huh. I hadn't even noticed that. Not that it makes much of a difference. A thirteen-year-old won last year. Everyone is a threat, regardless of how harmless their age might make them seem. Still, Darrin noticed something that I hadn't, despite the fact that we watched the reapings together, and I _thought_ I was paying attention. Maybe he was just watching the bottom of the screen because he couldn't stand to look at the tributes. Or maybe he's sharper than I thought. Maybe…

No. No, I can't afford to think that – not for a second. Can't afford to consider working with him, the way Aubrey and Colt helped each other last year. Not for my sake, but for his. He seems like a decent guy. I can't let him get dragged down with me. The Gamemakers will be targeting me. Other tributes may be targeting me. I don't want him to get killed because of something I did. I don't want anyone else dying because of me.

* * *

 **Sorry about the slight delay for this chapter. Holidays pose some difficulty for collaboration, but now that the festivities are over, we should be able to get back on schedule.**

 **Little bios are up on the tribute page of the blog. Nothing too complicated. Just a short summary - more backstory than personality - to help you remember which one is which. It's not meant as a substitute for actually reading the chapters, but let's be honest. It's been a while since the first reapings, and there are 24 tributes. It's nice for those moments when you're thinking, "Hm, I remember there was a tribute who did X, but I can't remember which one and don't want to skim through four reaping chapters to figure it out."**

 **Just a few reminders...**

 **1) Favorite tribute poll is still up on my profile.**

 **2) PM us alliance suggestions if you have them. If you don't have a preference, that's fine. We have some ideas of our own. But so far, we don't have any outside input, so requests will be very easy to work around.**

 **3) Happy New Year!**


	10. Original

**Original**

" _I am inimitable. I am an original."_

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

"I hear they've got something a bit more original planned this year," Eve offers hopefully as the train pulls into the Capitol streets. "A bit more elaborate. The outfits during the parade last year were a bit lackluster – especially the outer districts. This year, they'll be stepping up their game, so be ready for … well, anything."

I nod a little. She's trying to help us. Trying to be encouraging. But all this talk about outfits and dressing up and making us look good – it's only a reminder that, to them, this is all a game. A pageant of sorts. They just want to have fun. They want us to look good before they send us off to fight for our lives.

She's right about the outfits being a bit lackluster last year, though. A few of the more loyal districts got special treatment – District Two's tributes were dressed up as soldiers, and District One was dressed in gold, although that could be because their district specializes in luxury.

The rest of the tributes were simply color-coded to fit their district industry. A black suit and a black dress for the boy and girl from Twelve – because their industry is coal. Brown for Nine, Ten, and Eleven – to represent things growing in the dirt, I suppose. Green for Seven – trees – and blue for Four – for the ocean. And grey for the districts dominated by factories – Three, Five, Six, and, of course, Eight. It certainly helped One and Two get more attention – at least at first.

But getting attention … well, that's not always a good thing. It made the audience notice them, it's true, but it also meant that other tributes targeted them. District Seven's tributes went after the girl from Two right away, and managed to injure her early on – an injury that never really healed and ended up hampering her later in the Games. The girl from Eight, on the other hand, was still in pretty good condition by the time she made it to the final fight.

In pretty good condition, of course, except for being hungry. Starving, even. And that ended up hurting _her_. In better condition, she may have been able to overpower the boy from One. But he'd eaten pretty well during the Games – he and his allies had managed to find a group of cactuses and discovered that they were edible. That may have given him an edge.

That wasn't the only thing that gave some tributes an edge, though. At the end of each day, the Gamemakers sent a package to one of the tributes. The tributes in the arena probably didn't know it, but it was announced after the first package was sent that the Capitol audience had voted for their favorite tributes, and that, at the end of each day, the winner would be sent a gift.

Most of the packages didn't contain much. A little food, a few matches – enough to help them get by, but not enough to give them too much of an advantage. But each package also came with a list of the tributes who had died that day – something they didn't know ahead of time. But this year, we know more. We know those packages exist. We know there will be weapons provided at the start of the Games. And we know each death in the arena is signaled with a cannon. It'll be easier to keep track of how many tributes are dead, but those packages are still the only way to tell exactly _who_ died.

So the idea of catching the attention of the audience – maybe that isn't as silly or superficial as it sounds. Last year, tributes had no idea those packages were coming. They didn't realize how important it was to get the audience to notice them. So the packages went to tributes who … well, ones you wouldn't exactly expect. The boys from Ten, Eleven, and Twelve. All of them were on the older side, sure, but the boy from Eleven had a bad leg. The boy from Ten had allied with a known rebel. And the boy from Twelve didn't really seem to stand out.

This year, _everyone_ will be trying to stand out. And the audience will be paying a _lot_ more attention. That much is obvious as the we finally step off the train. The crowd that has gathered is huge. Eve does her best to usher Atleigh and me in the right direction, but the crowd keeps pressing forward, trying to get a better look at us.

So I wave. So does Atleigh. He's twelve, not stupid. He knows this is a competition. He knows _I'm_ competition. So I have to treat him the same way. The little twelve-year-old next to me is an opponent in a fight to the death. And only one of us can win.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

Only one of us can win. The thought brings a lump to my throat as Ada and I are led in separate directions. A pair of Capitolites lead me to a room, already studying me closely and helping me out of my clothes. And into … nothing. For a moment, I simply sit here, my body bare except for my underwear, waiting to see what they will do. "Lie down," one of them instructs. And I do. What else am I supposed to do? One of them approaches with a wet sponge and a towel.

And it feels … good, if I'm being honest. A bit strange, maybe, but good. The water is warm. The towels are soft. When they've finished washing me, they produce a pair of black shorts from one of the closets. And calling them 'shorts' is being generous. They certainly don't cover any more than the underwear I'm already wearing. But when one of the Capitolites instructs me to try them on, I don't argue. Where's the harm, after all?

I look a bit silly, I realize after I slide them on, finally catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. But no sillier than the tributes did last year, riding in their chariots with their fancy dresses and suits. All decked out in their best for a fight to the death. Is this really any different?

None of this is going to matter, after all, once we're actually in the arena. So when one of the Capitolites approaches with a brush and some sort of ink, I don't shrink away. "Don't worry – it's not permanent," he assures me before he goes to work. Drawing all over my body. Wavy lines – almost tangled. One color, then another. Red and blue and green.

Only once he's almost done do I realize what they're supposed to be. They're wires. Of course. District Five. Power. Wires. Makes sense, I suppose. "Now hold still," the other one instructs. "You have to wait for it to dry."

Okay. I can do that. But, after a moment of standing here in front of the mirror, literally watching paint dry, I'm bored stiff. "So what're your names?" I ask, desperate for any sort of conversation. Anything to pass the time. And there's no harm, after all, in being polite.

"Atticus," the one with the brushes answers.

"Andreas," answers the other. "We're twins."

Of course. "And what do you do – I mean, when you're not doing this."

Atticus looks a little offended. "We're artists, of course. Couldn't you tell?"

I shake my head a little before remembering I'm not supposed to move. "No, I mean what do you do for _work_? What's your job?"

They still look puzzled. "This _is_ our job," Andreas explains. "We design all sorts of new looks. Well, _I_ design, and Atticus paints. Mostly body work, but we occasionally dabble in canvas, as well." _I_ must look puzzled, too, because he shakes his head. "Don't you have something like this in the districts?"

No. No, we don't. No one in the districts would ever think about wasting money to pay someone to draw on their skin. And no one would ever consider trying to make a living doing something so … extravagant. So unnecessary.

But looking at what they've done – both to me and to themselves – it doesn't look unnecessary. It looks _fun._ Atticus' curly, blazing orange hair. The butterflies that line Andreas' arms. The way both of them prance about in their silly outfits, not caring whether anyone is looking at them. Maybe even _enjoying_ the fact that people are looking at them. Maybe they're a little bit silly, but they _like_ what they do.

How many people in the districts could I say that about? Could I say that about my parents – or even myself? Both of them joined the rebels because they felt it was the right thing to do, but was it ever really something they _wanted_ to do? Something they _enjoyed_? My father's job – does he really _enjoy_ it, or does he just do it because he has to have some way to support us?

I know the answer to that, of course. No one in District Five _likes_ their job. And these two wouldn't, either, if they had to work in a factory all day. But they _don't_ have to – that's the point. Here, in the Capitol, they can draw designs on people all day and call it a job. They can make their living doing something that they like, rather than something they're forced to do. They _chose_ to do this.

And that's what the rebellion was about, in the end. The right to choose, rather than having the Capitol rip all choices away from us. But I can't explain that to them – not really. Not without sounding like a rebel myself. And I don't want that. Not here. Not when I think about what happened to the rebels in the Games last year…

"No," I answer. "I don't think we have anyone in the districts who does this … but I wish we did." I wish we _could_.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

I wish I could see what they were doing. From what I've been able to tell from their voices, there are three of them. Three Capitolites, trying to figure out what to do with me. What sort of outfit they could possibly give me that would make me look like I have a chance.

There's a simple answer to that, of course: They can't. Nothing can make me _look_ like I have a chance. There's no sort of outfit they could give me that would cover up the fact that I'm blind. I have no chance. No chance at all. I know it. Jayda knows it. The other tributes know it. And everyone in the Capitol knows it.

Which means I have nothing to lose. So I might as well enjoy whatever sort of silly outfit they have planned. If these are going to be my last few days, I'll be damned if I'm going to spend them moping about. I'm going to enjoy this.

And not just for my sake. Clarence is watching. Well, not right _now_ , but he will be. He'll be watching the parade, just like we watched it together last year. He'll be watching _me._ And if I look miserable, if I look hopeless, he'll never forgive himself for letting me take his place.

So I can't look like I've accepted my fate – even if the truth is that I have. That I'd be stupid not to. So I do my best to smile as one of the Capitolites helps me undress and wraps something around my shoulders. My hands explore the fabric that's fastened around my neck. Some sort of cape, made of … I'm not sure, really. But something soft.

"What color is it?" I can't help asking. I'm not going to see it, of course, but I can still imagine. My fingers clasp the brooch that fastens the cape around my neck. "What does it look like?"

It's a moment before they answer. Maybe they're trying to figure out if I'll understand if they describe it in colors, or if I've always been blind. A bit silly, really. I mean, unless I was _born_ without eyes. Which could happen, I suppose. But the scars, I imagine, would make it pretty obvious that that wasn't the case…

"Blue," one of them answers at last. "The cape's blue, and the brooch is gold."

Better than nothing. "Dark blue? Light blue?"

"Navy blue," a second one answers. "Like the tribute's uniforms last year."

Of course. I should have figured that out. Dark blue, like the Capitol's uniforms during the war. They've already assumed, since I'm from District Two, that I'm a loyalist. The same assumption that Jayda and Titus made on the train.

Usually, that would be a fair assumption, I suppose. District Two wasn't particularly well-known for having a lot of rebel supporters. Seven, Ten, Twelve … but not District Two. It probably hasn't even crossed their minds that my family might have sided with the rebels. That that's the entire _reason_ that I can't see their silly little outfit…

But I don't tell them that. If they want to assume I'm a loyalist, let them. I learned my lesson about being too vocal about the rebellion. Well, sort of. If it were just my life at stake, I'd tell them _exactly_ what I thought of the Capitol and the President and especially the Games.

It's not just my life, though. If the Games last year taught us one thing, it's that it's not just about the tributes in the arena. Our actions have consequences for our families and friends back home … and maybe even for complete strangers. Silver's actions in the Games led to the anti-rebel sentiments back in Two growing even fiercer. She couldn't have imagined that. And I don't blame her for what happened. But I'm not about to make the same mistake.

Because it would be stupid – _really_ stupid – to go through all this effort to save Clarence's life, only to have him punished for my mistakes. I volunteered to keep him safe, and that's what I'm going to do – even if it means swallowing my pride and pretending to be a good, loyal citizen. If that's what it takes to ensure his safety, then it's worth it. _He's_ worth it.

I take a deep breath, calming my nerves as the three of them put the finishing touches on my outfit, which seems to consist of that blue cape, some sort of breastplate, and a pair of pants that feel like they're designed to look like armor. Some sort of tough leather, maybe. Probably blue, too. They're dressing me up like a soldier – the last thing I am. The last thing I ever wanted to be. And for now I'll have to pretend. But once I'm in the arena, how long will I really be able to keep up the act?

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

It's all I can do to try to keep up with their movements – turning here and there as the pair of them buzz around me like a pair of bees. Actually, they kind of look like bees, too – their black-and-yellow hair rather reminiscent of how Leopold's hair looked last year. Is that way he changed it? He didn't want to look like a bee? Makes sense, I suppose. I certainly wouldn't want to look like a bee. Too busy. Well, bzzzz-y.

Anyways, it's hard to believe there are only two of them. They're moving so quickly. The outfit started as a simple lab coat – white and plain and boring. I told them so. Meant it as a joke, but they seemed offended, and quickly _buzzed_ off to get some more supplies – and maybe to tell Dina's stylists that they'd made a horrible mistake and needed to add some color.

So now the two Capitolites – I think I'll call them Bizz and Buzz – are hurrying to correct the mistake, and the lab coat is … well, at least it's no longer white. Their painting is a bit splotchy, but maybe it's supposed to represent some sort of experiment gone horribly wrong. Like the Games. Except they're not using enough red. That's good, I suppose. Wouldn't want to make it look like I'm already bleeding. That would be bad.

"Ta-da!" Bizz cries excitedly, stepping aside so I can look in the mirror while Buzz continues to fiddle with my hair.

I can't help but laugh a little when I see what they've done. There's paint dripping from the lab coat and onto the floor. The paint has even soaked clean through the coat and onto the white shirt and pants beneath it. My hair is sticking up, like I just got fried by whatever experiment I was cooking up. But at least it's not boring.

I suppose that's what they're going for this year. Because last year, despite the lights and the show, most of the outfits were a bit ordinary. Lots of dresses, lots of suits. And this … it's certainly not a suit. I suppose they decided that District Three meant scientists. And, sure, we have a lot of scientists, but there are so many other things they could have done.

I mean, if they _wanted_ to go the science route, they could have dressed us up like a couple of lab mice – funny ears, tails, and all. Or they could have come up with some sort of experiment gone wrong – made us look like some sort of monsters. Or maybe some sort of mutts, like the panther that they let loose in the arena last year.

Shit, I hope there's nothing like that in the arena this year. That would be a terrible way to go. Not that there are too many _good_ ways to go, I suppose. But being mauled by a mutt doesn't sound great. Then again, neither does being stabbed. Or clubbed to death. Or drowning in a swamp. Or—

Stop it. Okay. Breathe. Stop thinking about all the ways you might die. I'm not dead yet. Not yet. And tonight – yeah, tonight's going to be fun. Seeing all the other outfits, the other tributes dressed up – that'll be good. "Any idea what the other districts are dressed up as?" I ask Bizz and Buzz.

Buzz shakes his head. "Not sure. They probably wanted to keep it a secret, too. Don't want anyone stealing their ideas, you know."

So it's a competition for them, too. That makes sense. Maybe that's why they decided to spice things up a bit this year. Last year, District Two's costumes were definitely the most memorable. Maybe the rest of them decided they could do better.

And I don't know if this is _better_ , but it's certainly a lot more interesting. And more interesting means it's more likely to catch the audience's attention. Which could be a good thing. But it _also_ means the other _tributes_ are likely to notice it. What are they going to think? Are they going to assume Dina and I are some sort of mad scientists?

No. Probably not. It's not like I'm going to assume anything about _them_ based on their outfits, either. After all, they didn't have any say in them – any more than I had in mine. They really should give the tributes more of a say, but I don't mention that to Bizz and Buzz. They were offended enough by my last comment, and I don't want to get on their bad side, or they might dress me up as a bee or something during the interviews.

So I clap each of them on the back as Leopold comes to collect me for the chariot rides. "Looks good, boys," I grin, ignoring Leopold's expression. He's clearly not impressed by the outfits, but I'm not trying to impress him. In fact, tonight, I'm not trying to impress _anyone._ I just want to have some fun.

* * *

 **Lexi Concord, 15  
** **District Four**

They seem like they just want to have fun. The three Capitolites who are busying themselves drawing fish scales on my arms and legs – they don't seem to realize what they're preparing me for. That in a few days we'll be fighting for our lives, and that only one of us is going to survive.

And the worst part … well, the worst part is that I can't really blame them. Because, until the reapings, I was just as oblivious. Until my mother told me the truth, I thought the Games were just that – a game. That it was all for fun. That the tributes weren't _really_ going to die.

That _I_ wasn't really going to die.

I bite my lip a little, trying to keep myself from crying in front of them. I'm _not_ going to die. I'm going to fight. I'm going to win this. I just have to try my best, and…

And what? It's not like the other tributes _aren't_ going to try. Twenty-four of us are going to try our best to win, but only one of us will. Only one of us _can_. All of us are thinking – or at least hoping – that it's going to be us. I hope it's going to be me. But will it?

The Games last year weren't very kind to the rebels, after all. _I'm_ not a rebel, of course. I didn't fight in the war. But my father did. _He_ was a rebel, even though I didn't know it until after the reapings. Will that affect my chances? Will they assume that because he was a rebel, I am, too?

 _Am_ I?

It's not that I ever really _liked_ the Capitol, but I never thought they were as bad as people said. But now that I know that the Games are real, now that I know that they killed my father … I can't just ignore that, like Jethro does. On the train, he said that he doesn't really care, as long as the Capitol leaves him alone. But even now that the Capitol _isn't_ leaving him alone, he doesn't seem particularly upset – at least not at them.

But I am. Does that make me a rebel? Maybe. Or maybe it's normal to be angry when people tell you you're going to have to fight other teenagers to the death. Who _wouldn't_ be angry, or scared, or at least nervous?

And I _am_ nervous. As they paint the last of the scales on my arms, I realize just how much I'm shaking. It doesn't seem to have affected their painting, though. The scales on my arms are blue, matching the top of the blue leotard they gave me. My legs, though, they painted with green scales, and waist-down, the leotard is green.

Once I look in the mirror, I realize why. I look like a mermaid. The green on my legs is meant to look like a tail – and, when I stand with my legs together, it almost does. My hair is down, which surprises me for a moment. I don't usually wear my hair down. It looks good. Pretty, even. Maybe even beautiful. I can't help a smile as I stare at the reflection. It doesn't even look like _me_.

And maybe that's the point. They want to make me look different from the girl who was chosen at the reaping. And maybe I _am_ different, now that I know the truth. Maybe it's not just their outfit that's changed the person looking back at me in the mirror. I twirl a little, and the three Capitolites giggle with glee. "You're ready," one of them nods approvingly.

But am I? Sure, I look a lot better now. But that's not really going to help me in the Games. All the costumes, the makeup, the lights – it's all just for show. And it's just for tonight. Tomorrow, we start training. Training for a fight to the death. And no amount of makeup and mermaid scales are going to prepare me for that.

All of that, though … it seems so far away. Maybe I'm not as prepared as I'd like to be, but there's nothing I can do about that right now. And maybe there's no harm in enjoying tonight. Or at least _looking_ like I'm enjoying tonight. Maybe if I smile and wave enough, if I pretend to be enjoying myself, it'll be enough to convince the audience that I'm not a rebel.

Even if I am. Even if I'm just as angry as everyone else who was picked – maybe even more. I can't afford to show it. Not now. Because rebels don't survive the Games. They proved that last year. If I want to live – and I do – then I'll have to pretend. I'll have to go along with their Games for now. But if I make it out alive – then they'll be sorry.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

If I make it out of this alive, they'll be sorry. _Leaves._ There are leaves everywhere. Leaves on my dress. Leaves in my hair. Leaves tucked into the ends of my sleeves and the tops of my shoes. Red and orange and yellow – all autumn shades, like I'm a tree slowly losing its leaves in the fall. I get it – District Seven. Forests. Leaves. But this is ridiculous!

I told them as much, but the two of them didn't seem to care. And why should they? If I was given the task of making an outfit for a girl who could be dead in a few days, would I put _my_ best effort into it? Would _I_ listen to anything the unfortunate girl had to say? Probably not. So I don't really expect them to.

Or maybe … maybe they honestly don't realize just how silly it looks. Because they look just as bad – if not worse. The girl – she certainly doesn't seem like a woman, with all the giggling she's doing, and she doesn't look much older than me – has dyed her hair an alarming shade of neon pink, and her skin is covered in funny drawings. Her face is practically covered in different shades of makeup ranging from a relatively normal pink blush to a ridiculous green around her eyes. Doesn't she realize that makes her look seasick?

Probably not. And the boy doesn't look much better. In fact, they could practically be twins, except for the fact that his hair is purple rather than green. Maybe they _are_ twins. They certainly act like it. Or maybe that's just how people act around here. Maybe Capitolites really are just as strange as everyone always says.

But General Tyrone … he didn't seem this strange. Harsh, maybe. Cruel, even, after what he did to the tributes' families last year. But at least his behavior seems … well, rational. He looks normal. He acts normal – apart from being a bit stiff. Compared to _these_ two…

Maybe that's because of the war. He said he fought, after all. Maybe he's simply not used to this sort of ridiculous luxury anymore. Or maybe it's his age. Maybe he's just tired of it after so long.

Because it seems like the sort of thing you'd get sick of after a while. Maybe all this is fun for a little bit – as long as you're not the one getting dressed up as a damn tree – but how long can it really last? Is the Capitol really like this all the time, or only during the Games? What do they even _do_ the rest of the year? How do they keep themselves busy when they're not being entertained by kids fighting to the death?

It's not like I'm going to _ask_ them, of course. Not like I want to talk to these two. What I really want is to get away as quickly as possible. But it's clear that I'm not going to be able to do that until they're finished. But they have to be _almost_ finished, right? It's not as if there's anywhere else they can put these leaves.

One of them wraps a scarf around my neck. Perfect. Now I don't just look like a tree – I look like a tree that's going for a walk in the autumn woods. I roll my eyes, but they don't even seem to notice. They're perfectly pleased with themselves.

After a few more minutes of them gawking at me, there's a knock on the door. I never thought I'd be happy to see General Tyrone. And maybe I'm not _happy_ , but I'm at least relieved. Bentley is standing beside him, dressed in the same sort of ridiculous outfit, plastered with leaves, a burnt orange scarf wrapped around his neck. But he's actually … smiling. Is he enjoying this?

Or is he just better at pretending?

I've never been much good at that – pretending to like things that I actually don't. Don't usually see the point, really. Sure, it might make other people happy. But _I'm_ the one who was just picked for a fight to the death. It's not my job to make these other little shits happy. It's my job to survive. Period.

Period? Or comma? Because in order to survive, I _am_ going to have to make the audience happy. Or, at the very least, not make them angry. Because tributes who make the audience angry – who make the _Capitol_ angry – aren't going to survive the Games. They proved that last year.

So I try to smile as the three of us head down the hall. I know I'm not going to enjoy this. _Can't_ enjoy this. Even if I wasn't dressed in a ridiculous costume, I can't ignore what's about to happen in a few days. How can I be happy? How can I enjoy this?

I can't. And that's a fact. But maybe I can pretend to.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

Maybe if I pretend I'm having fun, this won't be so bad. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. Maybe tonight will be fun, at least. Maybe I'll be able to forget – at least for a little while – what's about to happen to us. What's about to happen to _me_.

If so, though, it hasn't happened yet. Because I'm still shaking as the two Capitolites help me into a skintight dark brown outfit that covers me from the neck down, aside from my hands and feet. One of them drapes something over my shoulders. Some sort of wire, maybe, or a cord. The other one begins to twirl it around my arm, wrapping it almost like a vine around a tree.

Actually, that's _exactly_ what it looks like, I realize as I glance in the mirror. I look like a tree – sort of – and they're covering me in vines. Makes sense, I guess. We have plenty of trees and vines in Eleven. I guess they're dressing everyone up to look like something from their district.

Which means One and Two will probably have the best outfits – again. District One's job is luxury, after all – there aren't many ways to go wrong with something like that. Technically, District Two is masonry, but they were dressed up like soldiers last year, so that's probably what they'll do this year. It's better than rocks, after all, and will probably make them look more ready for the Games.

Me, on the other hand – I just look like I would blend in if the arena happened to be a forest. That's not much good – unless the arena actually _is_ a forest, of course. I guess I've just been assuming that the arena's going to be similar to last year. But maybe they decided to change it. They never really said, after all, whether they're going to use the same arena every year or do something entirely new. But they _did_ burn down almost half the arena last year…

Well, two of the _tributes_ burned down half the arena. Not intentionally – they were trying to smoke some of the snakes out of their hiding place so that they could eat them. But the fire got out of control. So if they _are_ going to use the same arena, they probably had to rebuild part of it.

My guess, though, now that I think about it, is that they're going to do something different, anyway. Maybe they were always planning to. Because we saw what the maze looked like from the outside. If they used the same arena – and kept everything in the same place – we would know what to avoid. The marsh. The snakes. And we would know where there might be food – that the cactuses are actually edible. They wouldn't want to give us that sort of advantage.

Then again, if _everyone_ knew where there was food, then that's where everyone would go, and that's certainly one way to get us to fight. Last year, the tributes got rather spread out in the maze by the end, and had to go looking for each other. Which made the Games last a bit longer, but maybe that's what they wanted. Maybe they wanted to draw it out. Maybe last year went exactly as planned.

I take a deep breath, fiddling with one of the vines wrapped around my arm. _Exactly as planned._ Twenty-three tributes dying – that was the plan. And it's still the plan this year. Everything else – the arena, the mutts, the costumes and the parades – it's all just a bunch of trapping. A way to make everyone forget what we're really here to do.

But I can't afford to forget – not for a moment. Not even now, when we're probably supposed to be having fun and enjoying ourselves. How can I enjoy this, when I know I'll be fighting for my life in a few days? How can I laugh and smile at the other tributes' costumes, when I know that any one of them could kill me?

Or that I might have to kill any of _them_. Because that's the only option, if I'm going to make it out of the arena alive. I'm going to have to kill. I'm going to have to kill some of _them._ Other kids – just like me. Just as scared. Just as desperate. Just as anxious to get back to their homes, their families. It's not fair.

But it's not supposed to be. None of this was ever supposed to be fair. The fact that poorer kids were more likely to be chosen, the fact that I'll have to fight tributes who are years older than me and twice my size, the whole idea of the Games in the first place – none of it is fair. The Capitol was never doing this to be fair. They're doing it because they _can_. Because there's no one who's going to stop them.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

Even these outfits aren't enough to stop me from thinking about what's really going on. In fact, as Ivone and I head for the chariots, I realize that, as the outfits go, what our stylists chose was rather normal. Everyone else looks like they're dressed in some sort of costume, but our stylists went with the same sort of black suit and black dress theme from last year – with a few modifications. Instead of plain black, there are wisps of grey all over my suit. I guess it's supposed to look like smoke. Smoke from coal – that makes sense, I suppose.

But it doesn't matter. None of it matters – the outfits, the chariots, the crowds. Because it's all just meant to distract us from the fact that, in a few days, we're going to be in the arena. We're going to be fighting each other. Killing each other. The fancy outfits, the delicious food, the warm beds – it'll all be gone. Only one of us will be coming out.

And if I want it to be me, then I can't afford to be distracted by any of this. I have to be on my guard. Even as I'm watching the other tributes, I'm not just looking at their outfits. I'm looking for threats. Looking for targets.

I've been doing that all along, of course. Ivone and I watched the other reapings on the train, and Z and I got a good look at the other tributes. But seeing them in person – it's different. Some of them look more confident than they did at the reaping, now that they've had time to process what's going on. Some of them look more nervous, as if the stakes have finally sunk in.

And some of them … some of them look like they're actually _enjoying_ this. And not the ones who are putting on fake smiles for the cameras as we head to our chariots. Not the ones who are smiling simply because their escorts told them to. Some of them are actually laughing. Looking around in delight at the silly outfits. Some of them are actually enjoying themselves.

Maybe some of them have managed to forget – for now, at least – what we're really doing here. Maybe it simply hasn't sunk in – the idea that any of us could be dead in a few days. Or maybe they're just _really_ stupid. That seems the more likely option for some of them.

Ivone, on the other hand, doesn't seem the least bit amused as we head for our chariot. Her outfit matches mine – except it's a long, flowing dress instead of a suit. But it has the same wispy smoke pattern. Maybe it's supposed to look dark. Mysterious. But next to the showier, fancier outfits the other tributes are wearing, it just looks a bit dull. Forgettable.

But maybe that's a good thing. Or maybe … maybe it just doesn't matter one way or the other. Last year, the girl from Twelve went unnoticed, and managed to survive until an unsuccessful attempt to steal from another tribute. The boy lasted even longer, and even managed to earn enough of the audience's attention to get a package sent to him on the third day.

But they still died. Both of them. All this show – the idea of vying for the audience's attention – it's ridiculous. But it's just as ridiculous for any of us to think that we're going to be able to stay out of the spotlight forever. In the end, it's not about how much attention we get. It's about what we _do_.

And what we do starts now. Once we step into these chariots, once the audience sees us for the first time since the reapings, once we start to interact with tributes besides our own district partners – then the Games really begin.

I want to think that I'm ready for it. That listening to Z will help keep me alive. That I'll be able to find an ally or two, play the game right. But the truth is that I'm not so sure. There's no way that _anyone_ can be sure. We're only the second group of tributes in the Games, after all. There are so many uncertainties. So many unknowns. So many things they could have changed since last year.

"Ready?" Ivone asks as we take our places.

No. No, I'm not ready. Maybe I never will be. Maybe no one can ever really be ready for the Games. But damned if I'm going to admit it to her. I smile a little, hoping I look more confident than I feel. "I guess we'll find out."


	11. Standing Still

**Standing Still**

" _I'm not falling behind or running late. I'm not standing still, I am lying in wait."_

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

My heart is pumping wildly as the chariots finally start to move. "All right! Let's roll!" calls Rick, before nudging me gently. "Get it? _Roll?_ " I giggle a little, more from nervousness than because his joke was actually funny. This is it. This is really it.

It's been sinking in little by little, I suppose – exactly how bad this really is. The reaping was awful. Watching the other reapings – and seeing our competition – made it even worse. Now, seeing them in person, everything is starting to seem even more real. We're really here – in the Capitol. In a few days we'll be in the Games. And there's not a thing I can do to stop it, no more than I can stop the chariots as they finally start to roll.

I glance around at the other tributes as the parade starts. District One is first, the pair of them decked out in silver and gold. The girl is wearing a beautiful silver dress, the boy a silver robe. Each of them has a gold cape, and each is wearing a crown – as if their stylists wanted to paint them as the king and queen of the Games. The boy is standing tall and proud, waving distantly to the crowd, as if he's already gotten into the role. The girl is a bit more hesitant, but at least she's trying to wave, trying to appear prepared – maybe even excited.

District Two apparently decided that last year's soldier uniforms weren't quite good enough a second time, and went for gladiators, instead. Their outfits are much skimpier than last year's – a pair of blue shorts for the boy, and a two-piece outfit for the girl that covers only a little more than necessary. Each of them is wearing a navy blue cape. Both are waving – the girl a bit more enthusiastically than the boy.

Rick and I … well, honestly, compared to Districts One and Two, we look a bit silly. Our white lab coats look like someone in the lab decided to play around with paint and caused an explosion. The only thing that isn't covered in paint splatters is our skin. But, somehow, the ridiculous outfit doesn't seem to matter to Rick. In fact, _nothing_ seems to matter to Rick. None of this seems to bother him at all as the chariots continue to roll down the street.

When the crowd sees us, cheers turn to laughter – but then back to cheers again once Rick and I start waving. Sure, our outfits are silly, but, to them, the whole point of the Games is _entertainment_. And they're definitely entertained.

Entertained. If it were just a parade – if this were the end of it, with us dressed up in our funny clothes, representing our districts and getting a good laugh from the audience – then I could understand it. I would probably even _enjoy_ it. But they're _laughing_ at the fact that twenty-four of us are about to be sent to our deaths. It's all a game to them. It doesn't matter that we're just children, with our whole lives ahead of us. It doesn't seem to occur to them – amid the bright lights and the costumes and the celebration – that those lives are about to be cut short.

Rick nudges me. "Keep waving," he hisses, and only then do I realize I've stopped. I was watching the crowd. Trying to understand how they could be so … so cruel. But this isn't really cruelty. It's more like … indifference. Like they don't realize exactly what's going on. Like they're oblivious to what's about to happen in a few days. Somehow, they can put that aside and focus on the costumes and the celebration.

And that's exactly what I'm going to have to do – for a little longer, at least. I start waving again at the ridiculous, cheering crowd. It's not fair – forcing us to seem excited about the prospect of going to our deaths. About the idea of killing the other tributes in the parade alongside us. Forcing us to fight to the death is bad enough, but forcing us to play along with their idea that it's just a game – that's even worse.

But that's exactly what I do. What I _have_ to do. What we _all_ have to do, if we want to survive. We play along – because the alternative is even worse. No one wants to be the one to step up and defy the Capitol, to remind them that this isn't funny. That this isn't a game. Because defying the Capitol means death.

So we keep smiling. We keep waving. We pretend. Because our lives are more important to us than some vague sense of pride. Because we're willing to go along with practically _anything_ if it means we have a chance of going back home. I don't know if I'm proud of that … but it's the way things are. The way things have to be.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I don't understand why they had to change the outfits this year. Sure, last year's outfits may not have been anything particularly eye-catching, but this … this outfit just makes me want to shrink and disappear inside our chariot. Apollo, at least, seems to be enjoying himself, but I've never felt so … so exposed.

The stylists, at least, seemed to tolerate me. Said I was better than last year's tribute. Apparently, she actually tried to fight them, and insisted on preparing her own outfit. Maybe I should have done the same thing. At least then I wouldn't have ended up half-naked with little wires drawn all over me, as if they were _trying_ to highlight the bumps all over my skin.

In front of us, District Four's tributes didn't fare much better, but they seem to be taking it well. They're dressed as mermaids, complete with little scales sketched all over their skin. At least the crowd seems to like them. I'm not really sure what they think of us. Not sure what _I_ would think of us, if I wasn't the one in this chariot. Of course, I'd probably just be grateful not to _be_ the one in this chariot. I wouldn't really care what the tributes were wearing.

Trying to distract myself, I glance behind us. District Six's tributes are dressed as a pair of train conductors. But at least their outfits cover up a bit more – dark blue uniforms and funny caps, complete with black boots and gloves. Suddenly, the girl catches my eye, and I quickly turn back to the audience. I'm supposed to be smiling. Supposed to be waving.

But that's the last thing I want to do. Right now, attention is the last thing I want. And it's not as if they're going to notice me, anyway. One tribute out of twenty-four. The rest of them are smiling and waving – most of them, at least. The audience is almost certainly paying attention to the tributes from Four than they are to me. To us. Either of us. We're just not that interesting.

I've always considered that a good thing. I've never really wanted to be the girl who stands out – because of her looks, or her brains, or because of her family's power. I've never been that girl, and I don't see any good reason to start now. Because those sort of tributes get targeted in the Games. Last year taught us that, at least. Tributes who can slip into the woodwork, tributes who can blend in a little and not catch the other tributes' attention – they seemed to last longer.

 _Longer._ But lasting _longer_ isn't the point. There's no point in lasting _longer_ than the other tributes and then dying near the end, like the boy from Five did last year. He didn't really catch any of the other tributes' attention, despite his rather high score during training. He got away from the fighting at the start of the Games, and managed to avoid most of the action until the very end.

Until the end. That's the problem. No matter how much I might try to avoid the attention, avoid the fighting, the killing – it's still there, in the end. He placed fourth, sure, but he still _died_. And that's not what I want to do.

As if it's up to me. As if it's up to any of us, really. As the chariots roll through the street, I catch a glimpse of the open space up ahead. The balcony where the president, his wife, and his daughter are standing, ready to greet us. To welcome us. To thank us for our _sacrifice_ and wish us well before sending us off to our deaths.

As much as they might want us to _think_ that we have a say in what happens, the truth is that _they're_ the ones in control. When it comes down to it, _they're_ the ones who decide whether it's safe for them to let us leave the arena alive. They may not pick precisely the Victor they want, but they can certainly help rule out possibilities.

So I turn to the crowd. I try to smile a little wider. Wave a little more. Because that's what I'm supposed to do. What I'm supposed to be. Be a good little tribute. Do as I'm told. Don't cause a fuss. Because anyone who causes a fuss can be disposed of _so_ easily. A little storm. A little explosion. And they wouldn't think twice.

Because we're nothing to them. When they look at us, they don't see children. I doubt they even see _humans._ They see tributes. Pieces in their little game. Pieces they're all too happy to sacrifice to achieve the outcome they want. And if I want to be the one piece that survives, then I have to be willing to play by their rules.

* * *

 **Atleigh Chaplin, 12  
** **District Eight**

They expect us to play by their rules – these silly Capitolites who are laughing and cheering now. Laughing as we go to our deaths. They expect us to play along like good little tributes – like almost all of the tributes ended up doing last year. And, judging by the number of tributes who are smiling and waving along with the crowd, they're right – about most of us.

But are they right about me? I glance up at Lacey, who's doing her best to smile and wave at the crowds. Trying not to look too embarrassed in the lacy, frilly costumes they dressed us both in. Maybe they thought that was funny – dressing Lacey up to look all … well, lacy. But did they have to put so much lace on _my_ costume, too? It's not like _my_ name is Lacey.

Maybe I shouldn't have expected anything different. That's the way my life has always been – dictated by how other people act, and how others react to them. Maybe it only makes sense that they would want to focus on my older, stronger district partner. On the tribute who actually seems like she might have a chance of coming home alive – and not on the little twelve-year-old who happens to be tagging along with her.

But I won't be tagging along with her in the Games – that much is obvious. She hasn't shown any interest in working with me, and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not all that interested in working with her. Not that there's anything _wrong_ with her, necessarily. We just wouldn't make a very good pair.

The crowd keeps cheering as we continue down the street. In the chariot ahead of us, District Seven's tributes are dressed in dark brown, skin-tight outfits and covered in multi-colored leaves. Red, orange, yellow – all the colors of fall. The boy is waving to the crowds, but the girl stands perfectly still, like me. Not wanting to play along, but not quite brave enough to do something outright rebellious. Something that could get her killed.

Behind us, District Nine's tributes haven't fared much better. Their golden-brown outfits, which might have been fine on their own, are drowned out by the number of seeds that cover them. Seed necklaces, seed headdresses, seed bracelets. Both are smiling and waving and trying to make the best of it, but it's clear that neither of them is really enjoying the ordeal.

Not that I can really blame them for that. None of us are really enjoying this – despite the fact that most of us are pretending to – or, at the very least, pretending not to be completely disgusted by the cheering crowds. I glance around at the other chariots as we reach the end of the street, the chariots forming a neat little semicircle in front of the president and his family. His wife, the Head Gamemaker. And his daughter, the host of the Games. A family business.

A strange twist of fate, that such a cruel, heartless family would be more of a family than mine. At least they acknowledge each other. Appreciate each other. They work well together. And while Mommy and I have always been thick as thieves, Daddy and his _real_ family are another story. They're probably watching right now. Maybe they're even happy that I'm here.

Maybe. Or maybe they simply don't care. That seems the likelier option, now that I'm actually here. They – along with everyone else in District Eight – are probably just grateful that it isn't them, or anyone that they actually care about, in these chariots, preparing to go into the Games. They're probably watching with the same detached fascination that I had last year. The Games were interesting, but they didn't seem particularly threatening.

Now, of course, everything is different. It's so much more real. And while it's disgusting, there's an energy in the crowd – an energy that's almost contagious. The cheering rises to a deafening roar as the last of the chariots pulls into view. Not because District Twelve is anything especially exciting, but because now they can see all of us. They know their next Victor is somewhere in front of them. Standing in one of these chariots. They're all waiting, wondering which one of us it could be.

Could it really be me? Maybe. I fiddle with a bit of the lace on my outfit. I'm one of the youngest tributes. One of the smallest. One of the least prepared for any sort of fight. But right now, with the cheering of the crowd echoing in my ears, it feels like I might actually have a chance. Maybe I really _can_ do this. Maybe.

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

I'm starting to think that maybe I can actually do this. I take a deep breath as the chariot finally slows to a stop one one side of the semicircle, the twelve districts facing each other, right where the audience can see all of us. I glance around at the other tributes. Most of the look just as nervous. Just as anxious. Just as uncertain about their chances. Watching the reapings on the train, most of them looked more prepared, or at least more composed than I was. But now … now they just look like a bunch of kids.

 _We_ just look like a bunch of kids. A bunch of kids in silly outfits. Maybe Hannah's and mine aren't as silly as some, but cow print fabric is still silly, even if it's been made into a suit and a dress. The audience couldn't help laughing when they saw us, and, if I'm being honest, I probably would have done the same.

But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we all need a laugh now and then. And especially now. If we can provide a little bit of humor, maybe that's exactly what the audience needs. Hell, maybe that's exactly what _we_ need.

Or, at least, maybe it's what _I_ need. Hannah doesn't seem particularly excited by the prospect of getting a laugh out of the audience – or the other tributes. She's drumming her fingers on the side of the chariot, ready for all of this to be over with.

But I'm not. Because every moment we spend dressed in silly costumes, riding around the Capitol in our chariots, is another moment that we're not in the arena. And I'm going to enjoy every one of those moments. The moments when I'm not terrified. When I'm not fighting for my life. When I'm not worrying about which of these tributes might want to kill me.

As I glance around at the other tributes, though, most of them don't look like they _want_ to kill anyone, much less anyone in particular. Most of them look like they'd rather avoid a fight, rather hide than kill. Like they'd rather be anywhere but here.

Beside us, District Eleven's tributes – a boy and a girl – are struggling to keep straight faces in their silly outfits, which are covered in vines. Next to them, District Twelve's tributes are plainly dressed – relatively speaking. The boy's suit and the girl's dress are black, with wispy grey patterns covering the fabric. Like smoke. Not a bad idea – smoke for District Twelve. Better than cows, certainly.

Then again, just about _anything_ would have been better than cows. Except chickens, I suppose. Yeah, chickens would've been worse. But not by much. After all, what are cows used for? Two things, really. Milk. And meat. And I certainly don't want to be meat. So does that make me milk? That's better than meat, but not by much. Maybe—

"Welcome, tributes!" The president's voice interrupts my train of thought. "Welcome to the Second Annual Hunger Games! We are honored by your presence. Your districts are honored by your courage and your sacrifice. And, at the end of the Games, one of you will have the honor of standing in front of us once more, a symbol of the Capitol's generosity and the districts' courage." He looks down, as if studying each of us in turn, and then continues. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Then he smiles. As if all of this really _is_ just a game to him. To all of them. The two women who stand beside him. The officials and advisers scattered behind them. The crowds all around. Do any of them really understand what's happening? What's about to happen?

They certainly don't seem to. As the president and his family disappear from the balcony, the crowd continues to cheer. So the other tributes continue to wave. But whatever optimism and energy I may have felt a few moments ago, it's starting to fade now. We're here. In the Capitol. The parade, the chariots, the excitement – it's all starting to fade, giving way to the reality of what's happening. The tributes who are slowly starting to climb down from their chariots – in a few weeks, twenty-three of them – of _us_ – are going to be dead.

Hannah and I quickly climb down from our own chariot, as well. A few of the tributes are talking to each other – saying hello, maybe – but, right now, I just want to get to our room and out of these ridiculous outfits. Everything else can wait.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I can't let this wait any longer. A wave of energy courses through me as I leap out of my chariot, completely certain of my next move. Gloria warned against forming an alliance too early, or with someone I'm not sure of. Maverick muttered something about not judging people based on their actions during the reaping. But something stronger than either of them is reassuring me that this is the right course.

The girl from Two turns as I approach. "Ra, right?" She's smiling, but it's a somewhat distant smile. She's trying to be friendly, but she knows better than to think I've happened over here by chance. No one in their right mind would approach another tribute without having some idea of how they wanted the conversation to go. If I play my cards right, I could end up with a valuable ally – and so could she. She just doesn't know it yet.

"And you're Jayda." It's not a question. I was watching all of them when we watched the reapings. Watched their faces. Their reactions. And Jayda – a volunteer from District Two, even after what happened last year. That sort of confidence is hard to forget – or to ignore. "I have a proposal to make."

Jayda raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're going to get down on one knee."

Maybe proposal was the wrong word. It's so rare that I interact without anyone outside my family, and they usually know what I mean. "I should rephrase that," I offer. "I'd like to propose an alliance."

Jayda nods a little, as if she expected that. Maybe she did. After all, there are only so many reasons for one tribute to be speaking to another after the chariot rides. Most of the tributes are on their way back to their rooms. A few are lingering to speak with their district partners, but most haven't sought out socialization outside their own districts. But there's no harm in being the first.

"You want to work together?" Jayda asks. "Why?"

A sound question. "You seemed like a natural choice," I explain. "You volunteered, so you're clearly not afraid to be here. You're fit, you seem to have some natural strength, and you want to make your district proud, as well as the Capitol." The Capitol. That's a touchy subject. My family wasn't exactly _loyal_ to the Capitol during the rebellion, but it certainly won't hurt to pretend we were. It wasn't as if we rebelled. We simply stayed out of the fighting. We're not soldiers.

Or, at least, we _weren't._ Maybe this is a turning point for us – and perhaps I'm the catalyst. "It makes sense for those of us who are loyal to the Capitol to defend each other against those who … aren't." I let that word hang in the air. I already have a few hunches about who might be rebels – either secretly or not. But I don't want to give away too much. Not until I'm certain of her intentions.

Jayda nods a little. "And what do I get out of it?"

A reasonable question. The benefits of allying with her are obvious – the advantages of joining forces with me are perhaps not quite so clear. "Loyalty, for one," I offer. "Our districts were allies during the war. It would make sense to do the same. I may not have any training – certainly I haven't been _preparing_ for the Games as you have – but I'd like to think I have some natural talent to offer. And," I finish with a smile, "you'll have the benefit of advice from the only person who's actually survived the Games."

I'm probably overselling Maverick a little. He didn't survive the Games through his skill or strength. But he survived, nonetheless. And that's more than anyone else can say. The other districts have escorts to advise them, yes, but none of them have been in the Games. Having someone on your side who has actually _won_ – actually survived the arena – is certainly an appealing notion.

Jayda smiles a little. "I'll think about it." Then she holds out her hand. "Good to meet you, Ra."

I shake her hand. And this time, I refrain from wiping my on my clothes after I've let go. If interacting with Charlotte at the reaping taught me one thing, it's that the smallest gestures can be misunderstood. I'm not about to make the same mistake now that it matters.

Jayda turns to go, and I follow her to the building. We part ways at the door to my room – her room is on the next floor up – but already she's looking a little more confident in my proposal. The idea of going into training already having found an ally is certainly an appealing one. And as she leaves, I can't help but think that I've already achieved a small victory.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I can't help feeling like Elinor and I have already won a small victory of sorts. Maybe our conductor outfits weren't the flashiest or the fanciest, but they certainly weren't the most ridiculous. If people remember us from the chariot rides, we probably won't strike them as particularly strong contestants – or particularly weak ones. And that could end up being an advantage for us.

 _Us._ During the train ride, Elinor and I had already started discussing different strategies for the Games. It seemed like the natural thing to do, since Maia certainly wasn't going to be much help. And if I _am_ going to be working with someone in the arena, Elinor seems like a good choice. Maybe she's not particularly sociable, but I'm not looking for someone to talk to. I'm looking for someone who can watch my back. And she seems like a good candidate.

Neither of us has really said anything about it – working together, that is. It's just been a sort of assumption, lingering beneath the surface of our conversations. But would she really have been so honest about what she thought was a good strategy or not if she _wasn't_ planning on working with me?

I glance over at Elinor as we head back to our room. We ride the elevator in silence, but as we reach the door to the sixth floor, she finally asks what we've both been wondering for a while. "Do you want to work together in the arena?"

I nod. Maybe too quickly. I don't want to seem too eager – too needy. But I don't really see a good reason to wait. "If that's all right with you," I venture, deflecting the question back to her.

She shrugs. "I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't, would I?"

She's got a point there. "Sounds like a deal, then." I hold out my hand.

She shakes it just as Maia bursts out of the room to greet us. "Well, would you look at that! Allies already! You know, I tried to convince last year's tributes to do the same thing. Didn't quite stick, I'm afraid. But _you_ two – oh, you were just made for each other. You're going to go far, my little darlings – that you are!"

I nod a little, trying to ignore the smell of alcohol on her breath, trying to push past the idea that I should question anything that _she_ thinks is a good strategy. Maybe she's drunk, but she's right about us working well together.

Or, at least, I hope she is.

Elinor rolls her eyes at Maia as we head for our bedrooms. "See you in the morning," she calls to me, eager to get away from our overbearing escort.

"See you then," I call back, and, after brushing Maia away, I head for my own room. But her words still linger in the back of my mind. _You're going to go far, my little darlings._ Not _you're going to win._ Just _you're going to go far._

Maybe she was trying to be polite. Trying to appear impartial. She was talking to both of us, after all. Elinor and I – we can't _both_ win. And we both know it. Whatever alliance we have now, it's only temporary. That handshake – it won't mean much if it comes down to the pair of us in the arena.

But the odds of that seem … unlikely, to say the least. Almost all of last year's tributes ended up working with someone in the Games. And while some of them later split up – and there were certainly arguments – none of them actually ended up killing an ally.

Then again, none of them were really put in a position where that was the only option. If the last two tributes happened to be allies, what would the Gamemakers do then? What would the _tributes_ do then? Would they really kill an ally – a friend – that they'd been working with?

Would _I_?

I don't know. I really don't. And that sort of uncertainty – it's almost as terrifying as the thought of my own death. Maybe my life hasn't been the most exciting, but I've always been able to take comfort in the fact that I had a fairly good idea what was coming. Up until the reaping – even during the rebellion – my life was fairly predictable. And while some people might think that's boring, I always found it … well, reassuring, I guess.

But now all of that is gone. I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what the Capitol or the Gamemakers or even the other tributes are going to do. I can't even say for sure what _I'm_ going to do, how _I'll_ react once the Games begin. And it's that thought, I know, that's going to keep me awake for a while.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

"Well, I guess _he's_ not planning to stay up and help us," Isaac remarks as Grant heads for his own room. Not that either of us was really expecting his help. He wasn't much help on the train, and he probably won't be much help once we're in the arena. We're on our own.

I simply shrug as Isaac and I take the opportunity to raid the kitchen. We quickly find a stash of desserts and help ourselves because … well, why not? In a few days, we're going to be hungry. But that doesn't mean we should start _now_. "It's not like he'd have any good advice to offer, anyway," I point out as we sit down across from each other at the table.

Isaac raises an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

I shake my head. "Look at the other escorts. Whenever they were onscreen last year, the announcers made a point of highlighting the ones who took part in the war. _General_ Luther Tyrone. _Commander_ Phoenix Lavelle. _Doctor_ Eve Barringer. At least they have some useful skills. Something helpful they could give their tributes advice on."

I take another bite of cake. "But Grant? You think he knows the first thing about fighting? Or about survival? Hell, both of _us_ probably already know more about surviving than he does, just from living in District Twelve."

Isaac chuckles a little. "You've got a good point there. If they'd really wanted us to get some good advice, they should have just picked twelve random people off the streets in the districts."

"But it's not about giving good advice," I point out. "They can pretend it is, but they're really just looking for twelve flashy people to help show off their tributes – that's it. They could care less about how much our escorts really help us."

Isaac nods silently. Maybe I'm being a little too critical. A little too bitter. But it certainly seems to be true. I don't think Grant said more than three words to us on the train. Not that Isaac's said much, either, but at least he hasn't avoided being in the same _room_ with me. Grant's skipped out every chance he's gotten.

Which wouldn't be annoying, except this is his _job_. Why would he volunteer to be an escort for District Twelve if he doesn't actually want to _do_ any of the things an escort is expected to do? I mean, I guess they never really said exactly what the escort's purpose is, but I just assumed they were supposed to do a little more than draw names out of a bowl.

I take another bite of cake, trying not to think about Grant. I can worry about him later. If I survive this, I'll make sure everyone in the Capitol knows exactly how useless our escort was. Until then, I have to focus on what he _should_ be focusing on: trying to make sure that I _do_ win.

"Maybe we should help each other, then," Isaac suggests, interrupting my thoughts.

I glance up from my piece of cake. "Pardon?"

"I mean, if Grant's not going to help us, maybe we could help each other."

It seems like a reasonable suggestion. A couple district partners ended up working together last year. District Five. District Seven. District Nine. District Ten. But none of those alliances really ended up working out, in the end.

 _Working out._ What would that even mean, in the Games? The pair from Nine made it pretty far together, after all, and the pair from Ten made it even farther. But when they died, they died together. The boy ended up staying to try to protect the girl, even though she'd been injured and was clearly going to die in the fight that followed.

Then again, no alliance in the Games is going to last forever. As long as I'm not stupid enough to get attached, as long as I don't end up sacrificing myself trying to save someone who's going to die, anyway … as long as I don't make the same mistakes that some of the tributes last year made, then where's the harm?

I don't answer Isaac right away. And, from the way he said it, he probably isn't expecting an answer right now. "Maybe," I concede. "We'll see."

That seems to be good enough for him, and both of us turn our attention back to our food. But it seems to taste a little better now. A little more filling. As if now, finally, I have a hint of a plan. And maybe that'll be enough to help me get some sleep tonight.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I don't think either of them is going to sleep for quite a while. Jim and Phoenix are still chatting on the couch as I head for my room. And while they didn't exactly say that I _couldn't_ join them, they're talking in hushed voices that get even quieter when I cross the room near them. Phoenix has clearly decided which tribute she thinks has a better chance. Which tribute she cares more about.

And that's clearly what Jim intended. All the flirting, all the politeness – it's obviously just an act. He just wants her sympathy. No. No, that's not quite right, either. He probably doesn't care about her sympathy – just about whether or not she helps him because of it. And if that's the game he wants to play, well, he's better equipped to play it than I am, anyway. I'm not going to be able to compete with him on that level, so why bother?

I'm not here to play games, anyway. And I'm _certainly_ not here to play nice with our escort. I haven't been _rude_ to Phoenix by any means, but I haven't been fawning over her, begging for attention the way Jim has. Maybe buttering up to her would help, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. To turn on the charm and seem like an innocent little kid who needs her help. That's not who I am. That's not who I want to be.

And that's not the sort of tribute who's going to win the Games. Flirting might help Jim win Phoenix over, but it's not going to help him in the arena. It's not going to help him fight. It's not going to help him kill. Once we're in the arena, she's not going to be able to do anything for him. He'll be on his own. And so will I.

I don't want to be _entirely_ on my own, though – at least not at first. Most of the tributes last year ended up with a partner or two. That seemed to help some of them, but others … others got too attached. I can't make that mistake. I'm looking for a partner. An ally. Not a friend.

But the truth is, I'm not entirely sure where to start. Whether I should look for someone my own age or someone older who might be able to help me out. The boy from Nine last year was thirteen, and ended up working with his older district partner, but that … well, that doesn't really seem like an option this time around. And last year's Victor, Maverick, started off with a twelve-year-old as an ally. The other tributes mostly left them alone until…

Until they didn't. And that's the thing, really. No matter how much I might try to hide, no matter how hard I try not to let the others notice me, eventually, I won't be able to avoid the fight. If I don't accept that now, it'll only make it that much harder later. I'm _going_ to fight. I'm _going_ to kill. Because that's what I'll have to do in order to come home.

So I'll have to look for other tributes who are willing to do the same … but who don't seem like they want to kill _me_. At least not right away. But would anyone that bloodthirsty want to team up with a thirteen-year-old from District Nine in the first place? That doesn't seem likely.

I head for my room silently. Phoneix and Jim don't even bat an eyelid. They're already ignoring me. Maybe the other tributes will do the same during training. Maybe that's good. Maybe not. Maybe … well, maybe there _is_ no good and bad. No right or wrong way to play this game. Jim's playing with flattery. I'm counting on being underestimated. Neither of our strategies would work for the other person. Maybe the strategy I should use is just a matter of how _I_ want to play.

I quickly change into some of the luxurious pajamas provided and stretch out on the bed. It's even more comfortable than the one on the train. If it weren't for the fact that the Games are growing closer with each second, I might actually enjoy this.

But I can't. I can't afford to enjoy it. Can't afford to be distracted from what's really happening. What I'll really have to do in order to win.

I close my eyes, rolling over a little until the mattress seems to envelope me. As much as I might want to focus on the Games, worrying about it isn't going to help me right now. There's nothing I can really do about it until tomorrow. Until then, I might as well get some sleep – while I can.


	12. What You Overcame

**What You Overcame**

" _Will they know what you overcame?"_

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 18  
** **District Ten**

I wonder if any of them know how much I want to kill them. Darrin and I are among the first to arrive at the training stations, only to be greeted by a woman who's far too excited for someone about to watch teenagers train for a fight to the death. "Welcome!" she beams once everyone has finally arrived. "In a few moments, we'll go ahead and head in. But first, does anyone have any questions?"

No one does. The training days weren't broadcast last year like the rest of the Games, but our escorts explained how this works. We have three days to train with the other tributes, as well as trainers who are experts in both combat and survival skills. After those three days, there's a day where we have the 'opportunity' to show the Gamemakers what we've learned, and we'll receive scores based on that. Later that day are the interviews. And then…

And then the Games. What I volunteered for. And there's a part of me that wishes we could just skip all of the pleasantries beforehand. After all, are three days of training really going to do more to prepare me for the arena than almost three years of fighting with the rebels? What good is sparring with a few Capitolites compared to years of _actual_ combat experience. There's a part of me that wants to go in there and show those Capitol idiots _exactly_ how much I know about fighting. Probably more than most of them.

And why not? Sure, it'll let the other tributes know how much of a threat I am. Some of them may be able to figure out that I fought during the rebellion. But that was always going to come out eventually. Aubrey tried lying low last year. She got a mediocre training score, which tells me she was holding back. Trying to hide how much she knew.

But it didn't help her. During the interviews, the host told the audience what had happened to her family, and that she had joined up with the rebels. Maybe the loyalists didn't target her the same way they targeted Simon and Silver, but the Gamemakers certainly did. I'm not going to be able to hide the fact that I'm a rebel. So why try?

So when the woman finally opens the doors, I head straight for the first combat station I see and choose a long, thin blade. The trainer smiles a little – maybe amused that an undernourished outer-district tribute thinks they can just waltz in and pick up any weapon they want. "Want me to go easy on you?" he asks with a smile.

I shrug. "If you want this to be the last Games you help tributes train for, sure." Then I take a swing. He barely reacts in time to block it. But the next time, he's ready, and meets my next blow with a force I wasn't expecting. I take a step back, then attack again. He dodges. Blocks the next blow. Then swings. I block his blow, allowing myself a smug smile. "Still think you should go easy on me?"

He smirks. "What makes you think I'm not?" His next blow comes faster. And the next. I'm sweating hard after the next few blows, and I don't have time to even think about attacking. All my effort is going into blocking his swings. I'm breathing hard, but this – this is invigorating. For the first time since the rebellion, I feel almost … alive.

I take another step back. Then another. The blade is growing heavy in my hands. I wasn't expecting him to be able to keep up this pace for this long. I grit my teeth and block his next blow. I could ask him to stop, of course. Ask for a break. But once we're in the arena, I won't be able to. I duck beneath his next blow and swing as hard as I can. He turns to block the blow in time, then kicks.

 _Shit_. I wasn't expecting that. My knee buckles as I trip backwards into a pile of supplies. The trainer raises his blade – but then lowers it and holds out his hand. "Impressive. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

I shrug. Maybe I'm not trying to _hide_ that I'm a rebel, but that doesn't mean I have to announce it to every idiot who's too stupid to figure it out on their own. But while I'm still trying to figure out what to tell him, a voice behind me interrupts us. "That's what I'd like to know."

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

The girl from Ten turns around, startled. Maybe she didn't realize anyone was watching. But quite a few of us were. And I have to admit, she's _good_. Very good. I've been training for almost a year, yes, but most of that has been running. Lifting. Improving my endurance and strength. I thought about trying to find someone to fight with – trying to get my hands on an actual weapon to practice with – but since the rebellion, weapons are hard to come by, even in District Two.

So where did she learn? Physically, she's not as strong as me – or as well-fed. She's a bit scrawny, even. And, sure, she lost the fight, but she managed to hold her own against one of the Capitol's trainers – a man who's supposed to be an expert. That's not just training. That's _experience._

The obvious answer is that she fought during the rebellion. And if she'd fought for the Capitol, she certainly wouldn't hesitate to mention it – to try to use it in her favor. So her silence probably means she fought for the rebels. But she was a volunteer – just like me. Why would a rebel volunteer for the Games?

"Picked up a thing or two from some friends," she answers vaguely.

I glance over at Ra, who nods. I hold out my hand to the other girl. "Jayda Greggory."

"Hannah Malacek." She eyes my hand skeptically. "What do you want?"

"To make you an offer. Would you like to join us?"

"What?"

That clearly wasn't the answer she was expecting. But I don't back down. Because even if she fought for the rebels – even if she killed during the war – that's even more of a reason to want her on my side now. The Capitol probably expects to be able to pit us against each other, like the rebels and the loyalists last year.

But we all saw how that worked out. There were two loyalists and three rebels that went after each other at the start of the Games, and only two of them survived. And the girl from Two, Gardenia, was injured – an injury that hampered her for the rest of the Games. So, yes, I could do what the Capitol expects. I could mark Hannah as a target and go after her once the Games start. But, to be honest … I'm not sure that's a fight I would win. But if she's on my side…

I'm not stupid, of course. Even if she says yes now, she might well try to betray us later. She's a rebel, after all. But I'll be expecting that. I'll be prepared. And if she's _with_ us, it'll make it easier to keep track of where she is. Easier to turn on _her_ when the time comes.

But I don't say that. Can't say that. So I have to give her a better reason to join us. "You fought in the rebellion, didn't you."

It's not a question – and we both know it. She nods a little. "You won't be able to hide that," I point out. "And you know that – or else you wouldn't be showing off."

"I wasn't—"

"Or letting off steam. Or getting some practice in. Whatever you want to call it, you certainly weren't hiding what you can do. So you're not worried about people finding out."

She shrugs. "What's the point? They'll find out sooner or later. The interviewers made sure of that last year."

"So why not beat them to the punch? Sure, you fought against the Capitol during the rebellion, but if you join the two of us now, maybe you can convince them you've turned over a new leaf – or at least pretend you have. If you can prove your loyalty…"

Hannah scoffs. "Is that why you volunteered? To prove your loyalty?"

Yes. Yes, it was. And maybe that _is_ why I suggested it. But I'm not about to admit that – not to her. "I volunteered because I can win. What about you?"

She crosses her arms. "I volunteered because I can kill."

I smile a little. "A perfect match. So what do you say?"

She eyes my hand, still outstretched, and I can't help but wonder if I've made a mistake. If she says no, then I've made myself her first target – because she knows she'll have to be mine. If she says no now, we have no choice but to do as everyone expects – to try to kill each other the moment the Games start. But, after a moment, she shakes it. "Deal. But you're going to regret it when I kill you."

I grasp her hand tightly. "Only if I don't kill you first."

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

Everything seems to be working out perfectly. Not only has Jayda apparently agreed to my proposal of an alliance, but she's also recruited probably the most experienced fighter in the arena. The fact that the girl fought on the losing side of the rebellion doesn't seem particularly consequential. That was two years ago. Even if the Capitol hasn't put the rebellion in the past, there's no rule saying that tributes who fell on opposite sides of the war can't form a temporary alliance in the arena.

And _any_ alliance is, at best, going to be temporary. So why should anyone care? Certainly I have no stake in the matter. My family had the good sense to stay out of the war, and I see no reason to get involved in their squabble now. Our alliance has nothing to do with the rebellion and everything to do with survival. Hannah has the practical experience that the war brought her. Jayda has almost a year's worth of training under her belt. I couldn't be in a better position.

And if they eventually turn on each other – well, all the better. It'll save me the trouble of having to get rid of them myself. Because, eventually, they'll both have to go, because _I_ have to win. That's all there is to it. Whether I kill them, or they kill each other, or someone else kills them first – that's not really important, in the long run. In the end, only one thing matters: that I emerge from that arena alive.

The two girls turn their attention back to the trainer, both ready for another bout. I wander off a little, studying the other tributes. Not that I'm intimidated by the girls' abilities, but it's probably best not to let them know – just yet, at least – how little experience I actually have. Jayda agreed to an alliance at least in part because she believed I had something to offer. And I do, but my expertise doesn't exactly lie with weapons.

I find a good vantage point near a corner of the room. If I don't have any experience with weapons – and it would be foolish to pretend that I do – then what exactly is it that I have to offer this pair of allies that I've found? Most of the other stations in the room are geared towards survival skills – lighting fires, building shelters, treating injuries – but I don't exactly have any experience in those areas, either.

 _Maybe you don't, but they don't know that._ A chill runs through me at the thought. My spirit's never asked me to lie before. But if deception is part of the game I'm going to have to play, then maybe I might as well start now. I make my way over to the fire-building station. How hard can lighting a fire be?

The boy from Seven is already at the station when I arrive, as is one of the Capitol trainers. But the boy doesn't seem to be paying much attention to the trainer. He clearly already knows how to light a fire after growing up in District Seven. So what is he doing at this station? Did he simply want to start with something familiar? Is he hoping the other tributes won't notice him? Or is he hoping to attract an ally or two with the fact that he already knows how to build a fire?

His reasons may not matter, but it's him I find myself watching instead of the trainer. His hands move quickly, and I struggle at first to keep up, but after a moment or two, I catch on. Soon, my own fire is lit. The boy smiles a little. "Nice."

Did he notice I was copying him? Is he simply trying to be friendly? Maybe, but he doesn't seem particularly interested in keeping up the conversation, and quickly leaves for another station. Maybe I frightened him. Or maybe he simply realized that there's not much more for him to learn here, and his time would be better spent exploring skills he hasn't already mastered.

As for me, my time would probably be better spent elsewhere, as well. Lighting fires didn't do tributes much good in the arena last year. The only ones who tried only succeeded in burning down a third of the arena. There certainly wasn't a need for more warmth or light than was already provided.

There's no guarantee that this year will be the same, of course, but there are some things that the Gamemakers simply have to provide – to some degree – if they want us to kill each other rather than starve or freeze to death on our own. Food. Water. Some form of shelter or another way to keep ourselves warm. I quickly head for another station – something that's not quite so easy.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

"Stop going easy on me!" I swing my staff harder this time, and it hits the trainer's own staff with a satisfying _thunk_. Or, at least, what _would_ be a satisfying noise if I wasn't certain that he moved his weapon exactly where I could hit it. Another blow lands exactly on my staff. He's not even _trying_ to hit me. He's just trying to make me feel better.

On some level, I understand that. Would _I_ really want to hit a blind kid? But once I'm in the arena, the other tributes aren't going to go easy on me. If – no, _when_ – I end up in a fight, my opponent will be trying to _kill_ me, not tap me with a staff every now and then. How am I supposed to be ready for that if the trainer keeps babying me?

I swing again. _Thunk._ I grip my staff tightly. "At least _try_ to hit me!"

"Like this?" asks a voice from behind me, and something strikes me in the leg. I turn, startled, swinging my own staff wildly, hoping to hit my opponent. "Not even close." A female voice again. Another trainer? Another blow from her staff finds my shoulder. "Do you want to fight or not?"

I swing. So does she. But she knows where to aim, while my blow slices awkwardly through the air. There's a _thud_ as her staff connects with the back of my leg, and I topple over in a heap. Something presses against my chest. "You're dead," the voice remarks.

I grit my teeth as I struggle to my feet. "I wasn't ready."

"Of course you weren't. You think you'll be ready in the arena?"

"Maybe. I—"

"Okay. Let's see how well you do when you're ready. Tell you what. I'll even let you have the first swing." I can practically see the smirk on her face. "Whenever you're ready."

I lunge in the direction of her voice, swinging my staff. Nothing. She's already moved. She's quick. Something hits me in the back. I swing, turning quickly but still hitting nothing. But I wasn't _trying_ to hit her. The next time she hits me in the back, I grab at her weapon, pulling as hard as I can, wrenching the staff from her grasp. "How's that?"

"Not bad – as long as you're not grabbing something sharp," the girl points out. "Not a great idea if I'd had a sword or a spear instead of a staff."

She's got a point. I nod a little. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not treating me like … like I'm hopeless."

"Oh, you're definitely hopeless. We all are."

"We? You're…"

"A tribute. Yeah."

Another tribute. I'd assumed she was a trainer. I'm so surprised, it's a moment before I ask the obvious question. "Then why are you helping me?"

"What makes you think I'm helping you?"

She's dodging the question. Maybe I should just let it go, but now I'm curious. If she simply felt sorry for me, I could understand that. But if that was her reason, she wouldn't have attacked me from behind. She would have gone easy on me – like the other trainer. But she was perfectly okay with hitting an unsuspecting blind kid. So why does she want to help me fight?

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Charlotte. District One. And you?"

"Julian. District Two."

"Well, Julian from District Two, what do you say we find something more productive to do with our time than hitting each other with sticks?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Knot-tying, I think. Want to join me?"

No. I don't want to. I don't want to learn how to tie knots. I don't _need_ to learn how to tie knots. I need to learn how to fight. But I know she has a point. We could stand here all day trying to hit each other with our staffs, and she would beat me every time. This isn't really helping – as much as we both might want to pretend otherwise.

So I follow her to the knot-tying station, following her voice as she continues to talk, describing what's going on around us, the other stations we're passing. I didn't realize there were so many of them. Apparently, my district partner and hers have formed a sort of alliance with the girl from Ten. Most of the other tributes, she says, are keeping to themselves or staying with their district partner.

"So why didn't you?" I ask as we take our seats at the knot-tying station.

"Why didn't I what?"

"Stay with your district partner? Try to join his alliance?"

"We didn't exactly hit it off," she admits. "And you?"

"Neither did we," I answer vaguely. But the truth is, Jayda and I have gotten along just fine. There's always been an understanding, though, that she wouldn't want to work with me in the arena. I didn't think that _anyone_ would. And I don't think I've ever been so happy to be wrong.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

I'm glad the blind kid found someone to work with. If I'm being honest, I was thinking about going over and helping him myself, before the girl stepped in. But something stopped me. A little voice in the back of my head, reminding me of why I'm here. I'm not supposed to be _helping_ people. I need to focus on keeping _myself_ alive. If I'm going to be working with someone, it needs to be someone who will be able to help me, not someone who will just slow me down.

So as the pair of them head for the knot-tying station, I turn my attention back to the knives I was studying. The boy beside me – the boy from District Eleven – is quickly demolishing all the dummies he can find with a knife and a dagger he's chosen. He seems to know what he's doing, but, on the other hand, he's only fighting dummies. Dummies don't fight back.

I make my way over to one of the trainers, who smiles when he sees the two knives I've chosen. "Practical," he remarks. "Small, easy to conceal. Not very difficult to control. Let's see if you know how to use them."

I don't. That much becomes obvious as soon as we begin sparring. If the blades we were fighting with weren't blunted, I would be dead – several times over. But they don't want me dead yet. I duck beneath the trainer's next blow, but I'm too tall to really pull that move off. He taps my back with his blade as I duck beneath his arm. "Dead again."

"So are you," remarks a second voice, and as I turn, I can see the boy from Eleven standing behind the trainer, the blunted tip of a blade touching his throat.

The trainer chuckles a little. "Nice move. Let's see what you can do together."

Sure enough, the pair of us do better together. The younger boy is shorter than me, but also faster. Together, we manage to score a few hits against the trainer – although he still would have killed us quite a few times if this were real. Finally, the other boy takes a step back, catching his breath. "Not bad."

"Not bad yourself," I agree.

"We make a good team."

"That we do," I manage between gasps. "What's your name?"

"Mantle."

"Jim."

"Jim. Have you thought about maybe … maybe looking for someone to work with in the arena?"

I'd be lying if I said no. If I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind as we fought. There are certainly tributes with more skill, more experience, but there's something about the way he fought. There's no hesitation. No question about what he's doing. "Are you suggesting the two of us…?" I let the end of the question hang in the air.

"Us, and maybe a few others."

A few others. Most of the tributes last year were only working with one or two others. "Why more than just us?"

Mantle nods in the direction of the sword station, where the girls from Two and Ten and the boy from One are practicing together. "If they're forming a larger group, then maybe … well, maybe we should, too – so we'll stand a chance against them if it comes to a fight."

"There's a danger in that, too," I point out. "If there are _too_ many of us, they may decide to make us their first target. Take us out early." I turn my knife over in my hands. "That's what I'd do."

"So maybe just one or two more," Mantle agrees. "Did you have anyone in mind?"

I shake my head. "I don't even know why you had _me_ in mind. Why'd you come over to help me?"

Mantle gestures around the room. "Look at them. Look at where most of them are. Learning how to tie knots and build fires. But you – you wanted to jump right in. To learn how to fight. That tells me you're not afraid of … of what we're going to have to do in the arena in order to survive."

He's right. I'm not afraid. Or, at least, as not afraid as some of the others seem to be. So many of them seem reluctant to pick up a weapon. And while the thought of actually using one to _kill_ someone sickens me, I know it's what I'm going to have to do eventually.

"So we look for others like us," I suggest. "Another tribute or two – ones who are willing to step in and get their hands dirty." I glance around the room. "How about her?"

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I barely see the boys coming as I swing my scythe a little harder, quickly decapitating one of the dummies. At first, I ignore them, thinking they're just passing near me on their way to another station. But then the pair of them stop right behind me. I swing again, slashing across the dummy's stomach, then turn. "Can I help you?"

The taller boy smiles a little. "Actually, we were thinking that maybe we could help each other – that maybe you'd like to join us."

I raise an eyebrow. "Join you?"

The shorter boy nods. "I'm Mantle, and this is Jim. And you are…?"

"Lacey."

The taller boy grins. "Ah, Lacey. Like your lacy outfits last night. That makes sense."

Great. I was hoping people would forget about that. "Not like yours were much better," I point out. Seeds everywhere for yours – and vines for yours. The stylists could certainly use a little more imagination."

I shouldn't care. It shouldn't make a difference whether we were dressed in silly costumes or more stylish outfits like District One's. But the fact is that this was the first time – aside from the reapings – that the audience had a chance to see us. And most of us … well, most of us looked just plain silly.

"I didn't mean anything by it," the taller boy apologizes. "I think Lacey's a lovely name." He smiles a little. "So what do you say?"

For a moment, I study the two of them. I hadn't really been thinking about trying to find allies this soon. I was assuming I would have to get a day or two of practice in – prove myself, so to speak – before anyone would be interested in joining me. But now an alliance has practically fallen into my lap. It seems a bit too good to be true, but can I afford to say no?

"Why me?" Sure, I was doing pretty well against the dummies I was fighting, but those were dummies.

It's the younger boy who answers. "We're looking for people who are willing to do what has to be done – and you seemed like you might fit the bill."

 _Willing to do what has to be done._ They're looking for people who are willing to kill. And they came to … me? I'm not the first person I would have picked. But, as I glance around the room, I can certainly see where they might have gotten that impression. I've at least picked up a weapon. We've been training for a few hours already, and quite a few of the tributes are still lingering around the survival stations.

I thought about doing that, too – trying to pick up a few survival skills before trying my hand at the weapons stations. But the truth is, I thought this would be more useful. How many tributes in the arena last year actually ended up building a fire? How many actually built a shelter or made a trap? Survival skills didn't seem to do the tributes any good last year. But almost _all_ of them ended up fighting.

So weapons stations it was, and that decision seems to have paid off. "And you think you fit that bill, too?" I take a step towards them. I hadn't been paying much attention to what they were doing – or what anyone else was doing, to be honest. I've been so worried about myself, I didn't really think to watch the other tributes.

"Yes," Mantle answers without hesitation. "We do."

Confidence. That's something, at least. But will he be that confident once the Games actually begin? The bell rings for lunch, and the three of us head for the tables together. After we get our food, I sit down with them without hesitation. "Okay," I decide at last. "It's a deal."

A deal. That makes it sound so official. So certain. But the truth is, it's a deal that can't last forever. And we all know that. We may be a team now, but once we're in the arena – once the other tributes start dying – I'll eventually have to worry about what's best for _me_ , not for the team.

I shake the thought from my head. That's a long way away. We're not even in the arena yet. A lot could happen between now and then. But for now – for right now – at least I have a little bit of a plan. I have a few partners to watch my back, to work with, to bounce ideas off of. I'm not alone. And that feels good.

* * *

 **Mantle Grimes, 15  
** **District Eleven**

It feels good to have some part of a plan already. Maybe the three of us don't know exactly what we're going to do once we're in the arena, but we have two more days of training to figure that out – without having to worry about figuring out who we're working with. Getting that out of the way is … well, almost satisfying. Or at least reassuring.

But I can't afford to get too comfortable. Too complacent. None of us can. This little alliance we have can't last forever – and all three of us know it. We eat our lunch in silence until Jim asks the obvious question. The question one of them was bound to ask at some point. "So why'd you volunteer?"

Maybe it's a reasonable thing to ask. Hell, if I was in their place, I'd certainly want to know why someone else would volunteer for the Games. _None of your business_ is what I want to say. But I don't want to give them the wrong idea.

The wrong idea. And what would the wrong idea be? That I want to kill them? But I volunteered knowing that I would have to kill _someone._ I didn't know who – still don't – but the fact is I'm not getting out of this without blood on my hands, and I knew that when I volunteered. "There's nothing for me back home," I answer vaguely. "Nothing good, anyway."

That seems to satisfy Jim, but Lacey shakes her head. "What could be _that_ bad that this is a better idea? I mean, sure, the rest of us are willing to do what has to be done, like you said, but we didn't _choose_ to be here."

"No, but—" But what? She's right. I had a choice. I _made_ a choice. The first choice I've actually made in a long time. I chose to get away. And I'll have to live – or die – with that choice.

I glance over at Jim, who nods. "Sometimes there aren't any good choices," he agrees. "Sometimes you just have to choose the one that sucks the least."

He's certainly got that right. It's not as if I _want_ to die. Not as if I _want_ to kill. But, at the time, during the reaping … well, it seemed better than the alternative. Still does, I suppose. I push my empty plate away. "Let's get back to work."

As the three of us head back towards the weapons stations, Jim shoots me a look, nodding. As if he understands. As if he knows what it's like to have nothing to return home to. "There isn't much for me back home, either," he admits quietly. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to go back."

I want to make it back, too. At least, I think I do. But if I don't make it … well, at least I'll never have to face my father again, or his temper. I follow Jim to the spear station, where a trainer is waiting with a smile on her face. "All three of you, huh?"

 _All three of us._ It feels a bit strange, to be honest – working with these two. Working with _anyone_ , really. But we stand a better chance of staying alive together. And that's what I want.

Isn't it?

Of course it is. I quickly choose one of the spears, and Lacey and Jim follow my lead. I attack first, and the others quickly follow suit. Following _me._ Not something I really expected. They're both older than me. Maybe I should be following _them._

But none of that seems to matter right now. For a while, _nothing_ seems to matter, and I lose myself in the rhythm of our fight. Strike, dodge, strike again. It comes almost naturally, and while my arms ache with the weight of the spear, my whole body seems to be filled with energy – with _life_.

I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to be free from fear, from worry, from dread of what might happen in the future. Strange that here, of all places, I would feel safer and more alive than I have in years. I could keep going like this for hours.

Or, at least, my mind thinks I could. My body has other ideas. After a few more hours of sparring with various weapons, trying to get a feel for each of them, my arms and legs are sore. I'm breathing hard, and I'm sweating heavily. Jim and Lacey haven't fared much better. None of us are used to this. But I can't help a smile as we head back to our rooms for dinner. This feels _good_. But once we're in the arena, will that feeling stay the same?

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

"So what happens once we're in the arena?" Julian's question catches me off-guard, but maybe I should have been expecting it. Maybe I should have known it was coming. We've spent most of the day together, heading from one survival station to another. It's not unreasonable for him to expect an answer – an answer about whether I really plan on working with a blind kid in the arena.

There's a part of me that wants to say no. To say that as much as I might want to help him, I can't risk my life to stay with someone who has no chance of winning. But as soon as I start to think that argument through, it falls apart. I don't want to work _with_ someone who has a good chance of winning. _I_ want to have a good chance of winning. Whoever I'm working with is going to have to die eventually. So where's the disadvantage?

But there's something else. Something deeper. When I saw him fighting with the trainer earlier, I didn't see a blind kid who had no chance. I saw someone who desperately wanted to learn how to fight so that he could survive. I saw someone who wanted to _live_ despite the fact that he'd already been kicked around by life quite a bit. I saw … well, maybe I saw a bit of myself in him. Maybe I still do.

"We stay together," I answer at last. "I mean – as long as that's all right with you."

"Absolutely." He's beaming now. "I just thought … you know … my eyes…"

"Who knows? Maybe that'll earn us some sympathy points," I reason. "No one's going to want to fight a blind guy, right?"

Julian shakes his head. He knows that's a weak argument. None of us _want_ to fight anyone. No one _wants_ to fight a twelve-year-old, either, but the tributes last year did it. And, when it comes down to it, so will this year's tributes. Eventually, everyone is just competition. Even younger tributes. Even blind tributes.

"Depends," Julian admits as we head out of the training center, his hand clasped gently around my upper arm.

I shake my head as I lead him to the elevator. "Depends on what?"

Julian hesitates, but finally decides he might as well say it. "Depends on what they think of how I lost my eyes."

"How?" I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been wondering, but I sort of figured it was something he wouldn't want to talk about. But since he opened the door…

"It was almost a year ago – after the last Games. Three boys came up to me in an alleyway. They beat me, tied me to a fence, tore out my eyes … because they knew my family had helped the rebels. And I … I wasn't exactly quiet about it. I thought if I stood up to them…" He trails off. Obviously, standing up to them hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. He shakes his head. "Not what you'd expect from a kid from District Two, I guess."

"Or District One," I offer.

"You mean…?"

"Yeah. My parents joined the rebels. I was twelve – didn't have much say in the matter. But I stuck around the rebel camp even after they died. They were more generous with their leftovers than the Capitol soldiers. I was just trying to survive. Still am, I suppose."

"Aren't we all." Julian gives my arm a squeeze. "We make quite a pair, huh?"

We do. And that … that frightens me a little. It's been a while since I've really been close to anyone. There are a few of the other street kids that I trust, but, now that I think about it, I don't really know much about any of them. Julian's told me more about himself in the last day than I've learned about some of my 'friends' in years. He trusted me enough to tell me that his family were rebels, even without knowing how I'd react.

Maybe he figures he doesn't have anything to lose. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe none of us do. Because I was just as honest. Just as willing to trust him – this boy I've known for less than a day.

I push the button for the elevator, which dings almost immediately and opens. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Julian offers.

"I'll see you then," I agree, turning back towards my room, imagining what Maverick will say. Hell, what will _Ra_ say? He and his new partners probably saw me around the training center today. Probably got a good laugh out of it. The street kid and the blind boy. But, somehow, it doesn't matter what they'll think. What Maverick thinks. What the Capitol thinks. Maybe it doesn't even matter what _I_ think. What matters is how I feel. And this … this feels right.


	13. Rewrote the Game

**Rewrote the Game**

" _Will they know what you overcame? Will they know you rewrote the game?"_

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

Of course Jim has already found some people to work with. Makes sense, I guess. He's one of the older tributes. One of the stronger tributes. Me? Well, to be honest, I haven't even decided if I _want_ to work with anyone. There's a part of me that wants company, of course, but who's really going to want to work with me?

The other younger tributes, I suppose. The ones no one else would want to work with either. There's a younger girl at the next station – the knot-tying station. The girl from Eleven. Jim's already working with her district partner, and they don't seem likely to ask her to join them. Maybe I should…

But why? I stop myself before I can get up and head over to ask her. Am I just thinking about asking her because I feel sorry for her? Because she's alone? That doesn't seem like a good reason for joining her – or for asking her to join me.

"Options are getting slimmer, aren't they." I nearly jump, startled, as a boy takes a seat beside me. The boy from Four. "Everyone's in such a hurry to team up with people. Seems a bit weird, doesn't it – I mean, since we're supposed to kill each other and everything."

I shake my head. "No. It makes sense. More people, more protection."

The boy shrugs. "Sure. But also more people to worry about."

"Only if you worry about them."

The boy laughs a little. "That's the spirit. What's your name?"

"Mel."

"Jethro. Nice to meet you. Well, sort of. As nice as anything can _be_ around here, I guess."

I add a few more sticks to the fire I've started. "Did you want something?"

Jethro tosses a few more sticks onto the flames. "I just noticed you looking around like … well, like you were thinking about who might make a good partner. Thought I'd throw myself into the running, so to speak."

I shake my head. "Why me?"

Jethro chuckles a little. "I've been watching you – heading from station to station, picking up all the survival skills you can. But you haven't touched the weapons. Which tells me three things."

 _Okay, I'll bite._ "What three things?"

Jethro grins. "Glad you asked. First, you want to live. You didn't just pick one survival station and stick with it. You want to learn a little of everything, because you know that the Gamemakers can throw anything they want at us once we're in the arena. If you don't know what to expect, it's best to be prepared for anything."

Jethro starts making a pile of his own sticks as he continues. "Two – the fact that you've been avoiding the weapons stations tells me you don't really want to be here. That you don't want to do this." I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. "Don't worry – most of us don't. And most of us will, anyway, when the time comes. That's how it worked last year. But the fact that you're not eager to get started on the killing tells me you probably won't stab me in the back. That's good."

Fair enough. "And three?"

"You've been avoiding going near the stations where your district partner is. Which tells me you two aren't going to be working together. Makes sense. He's what? Four years older than you?"

"Five."

Jethro nods. "Which tells me you're being realistic about your options. Well, that and the fact that you were eyeing the girl from Eleven – but didn't quite make it over there to ask her. You want someone useful, but you don't know who might want you."

"And you do? Want me as a partner, I mean?"

"Wouldn't be asking if I didn't."

"Why not your district partner?" I don't think she was that much older than him.

He shakes his head. "Let's just say we're not a good match."

"But you think we are – you and me?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

What _do_ I think? He's certainly chatty – which could be good or bad. Observant. Maybe a bit over-confident. But at least he's not kidding himself about what needs to be done. What we'll have to do if we want to survive. Finally, I nod a little. "I think so."

* * *

 **Lexi Concord, 15  
** **District Four**

I'm glad Jethro found someone. But I have to admit, I'm just as glad that it wasn't me. That he didn't try to talk me into teaming up with him during the Games. Putting up with him during the train ride was frustrating enough.

It wasn't even the chatter. Not really. I don't mind people talking. It's just that he doesn't really seem to think about _what_ it is that he's saying. Like he doesn't care what people think. What might get him killed.

That's a new feeling – having to be careful about what I say. I've never really thought much about what other people think of me, either – not really. But knowing what I know now – about my father, about the war, about the Games – I'm going to have to be a lot more careful. And Jethro seems like a good many things, but I don't think 'careful' is one of them.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

The voice startles me more than I'd like to admit. I hadn't noticed that anyone else had joined me. "No," I answer quickly. "There's no one."

The girl smiles a little as she takes a seat next to me. "Not the most popular station, I guess."

No. I wasn't expecting the shelter-building station to be a popular one. But it could be useful. Last year, there was a fair amount of rain in the arena, and most of the tributes ended up getting soaked. If they'd been able to build a shelter, they could have stayed dry. If they could have stayed dry, maybe they wouldn't have been so miserable. Miserable people make mistakes. Take stupid risks. I can't afford to take stupid risks.

The other reason, of course, is that this was where I felt more comfortable. That it's easier to think about how to keep myself alive than how to make sure that other people don't.

"I'm Dina," the girl offers cheerily.

"Lexi."

"Looks like a good shelter," Dina grins. "But it's a bit … obvious."

"Obvious?"

"I mean, it doesn't really blend in."

She's right. It doesn't blend in with anything – even with itself. The sticks I used don't blend in with the leaves, and neither of them blends in with the rope or the plastic tarp I was using to supplement the other building materials. "Guess I wasn't really thinking about that," I admit. "I just figured … well, if the weather's that bad, nobody's going to be out in it looking for people, anyway."

"Probably not," Dina reasons. "Not by choice, anyway. But if they're looking for somewhere to take shelter from a storm or something, and they see that you've already _made_ one, trying to use yours might seem easier – and quicker – than building their own."

 _Trying to use yours._ She makes it sound like another tribute would just waltz up and ask if they could share my shelter. And I suppose they might. But what would I do then? What would happen if I said yes?

What would happen if I said no?

Of course, the other obvious option is that they wouldn't ask. That they would just attack, out of desperation or out of fear that I might refuse to let them in. Is that a fight I would win?

It's a fight that would be easier if I wasn't alone. "Would you like to help me?" I ask.

Dina raises an eyebrow. "You mean help you with your shelter, or…?"

"If you want. Or if you're looking for someone to work with in the arena, we could … well, we could keep helping each other."

"Why would you want to work with me?"

"Why not? You came over here, offered me advice, thought of something I hadn't." I shake my head. Maybe I've scared her away. "If you don't want to, I understand. I just thought—"

"No, I do," Dina insists. "I just … wasn't expecting it to be this easy to find someone."

Neither was I. But now that the perfect partner has just dropped into my lap, I'm not about to refuse. "So what could we do to make the shelter less … obvious?" I ask, scooting a little closer. "Any ideas?"

"Depends on what we have with us in the arena," Dina reasons. "If there's mud around, we could always cover it in that – make the whole thing blend together. Of course, if it's raining, the mud might wash away. We could also cover the whole thing in leaves, but same problem – they could all just blow away if the wind is strong enough. Then again, if the wind is strong enough, the whole _shelter_ could just blow away."

I chuckle a little. "Or we could."

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

"It's a joke," Lexi insists after I don't respond. "I didn't mean that we would actually get blown away by the wind."

I shake my head. "No. No, of course not. But it's a good point. Anything strong enough to blow the shelter away completely would also blow _us_ away, so we might as well not worry about it. It's not as if the Gamemakers are _trying_ to kill us. They want us to kill each other. And we can't do that if we're all getting blown away by the wind."

"Didn't really stop them last year," Lexi points out. "There was a storm. There was a fire. There was a lot of rain…"

"But the rain also helped keep the tributes alive," I reason. "Sometimes, it was their only source of water. And the _tributes_ started the fire. The fire didn't actually kill anybody, either – just drove some of them together while they were running from it. And the storm…"

I trail off – because she's right. While the storm didn't actually _kill_ anyone, it did injure one of the tributes pretty badly. Enough to ensure that she would lose the next fight she was in, regardless of who the other tribute was. But that tribute – the girl from Ten – she was a rebel. The Gamemakers were targeting her because of that. They have no reason to target _us._ Unless…

No. Lexi doesn't seem like a rebel. Then again, what would a rebel _seem_ like? What would I expect her to do if she _was_ one? Sure, one of the rebels last year – from her district, in fact – killed his escort. But _most_ rebels wouldn't want to be so obvious about it. Wouldn't want to do anything that would get them targeted by the Gamemakers.

For a moment, I think about asking her. But what good would that do? If she _was_ a rebel, why would she tell _me_? We just met, after all. And if she isn't, asking her that sort of thing might make her think that _I'm_ a rebel – which I'm not. I don't like the Capitol any more than anyone else in the districts, but my family knew better than to join the rebellion. And I know better than to bring it up for discussion now.

So I turn my attention back to our shelter. "And the storm wasn't that bad, really," I finish. "Only one tribute got hurt."

Only one. It doesn't sound so bad, when I phrase it like that. And it isn't … unless that one tribute happens to be me. But even if I'm wrong about Lexi – even if she _is_ a rebel – that's no reason for the Gamemakers to target _me_. If something like that _does_ happen, I could always just leave.

Then again, the boy from Ten last year could have left, too. He didn't. When it came down to it, he stayed with his friend even though he knew she was going to die. If I want to make it out of the arena alive, I can't afford to make the same mistake. Because whether it's due to the Gamemakers or another tribute, if I want to live, eventually Lexi has to die. Even if we're working together, I can't let that get in the way of what I really want. And what I really want is to _live._

"Yeah," Lexi echoes quietly. "Only one."

She's probably thinking the same thing I am. Hoping that one person isn't her. For a while, the two of us continue in silence, camouflaging the shelter she built. Once it's finished, we crawl inside to test it out. Lexi nods. "Not bad."

She's right. It's not. It's stable, it blends in, and it looks like it would hold up pretty well. But it was also built under the best of circumstances. We had all the supplies we needed. And we had plenty of time. Once we're in the arena.

"Let's build another," I suggest as we crawl out.

Lexi raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

I shrug. "I want to see how fast we can do it – and how well we can build one without having everything we might need. So let's see how fast we can do it if we only have…" I glance around. "Branches and leaves. Let's go with that."

Lexi smiles a little. "Like a game. A race, really."

"Exactly." I glance over at the clock. "Let's go." And, as we get started, it _does_ almost feel like a game. In any other circumstances, this might be fun. But we're not _in_ other circumstances – and I can't afford to lose sight of that.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

I can't afford to start second-guessing myself. As I glance around the room, I can see other groups starting to form. Did I make my choice too early? Mel seems nice enough, but how much help is she really going to once we're in the Games?

I shrug off the question as we head for the first aid station. Maybe she's not the flashiest partner. Maybe she's not the strongest or the most competent. But let's face it – the strongest tributes aren't going to want to team up with me, anyway. There are already a few groups of stronger tributes forming, and neither of them seems likely to want me. The boy from One, girl from Two, and girl from Ten are apparently working together, but they're all older. The boys from Nine and Eleven have teamed up with the girl from Eight – again, all older than me.

I keep trying to tell myself that my age doesn't matter. After all, last year's Victor was only thirteen. A year younger than me. Mel's age. That should make me feel better, but…

But that only means it'll be harder this year. Harder to convince the other tributes – the older tributes – that we're not really a threat. That they can safely ignore us. Everybody who was watching last year knows that thirteen year olds can be just as deadly as eighteen year olds. Mel and I won't be able to fool anyone.

Including each other. We both know this partnership – this little alliance – can only be temporary. I'm not kidding myself – and neither is she. We both know what's at stake. What we have to lose.

 _What we have to lose._ It's funny, really. If you'd asked me a few days ago what was so special about my life back in District Four, I wouldn't really have had an answer. Sure, I've got my uncle, but that's pretty much it. All I have to go back to.

But now … now that's enough. Even the little I have to go back to is more than enough of a reason to fight. To kill. To do everything I can to make sure that _I'm_ the one who comes out of that arena alive.

"Hello again, Mel," the trainer beams as we take our seats on the ground, bandages and other supplies strewn all around us. "Back for more, eh?"

Mel shrugs. "It was so much fun yesterday."

The trainer giggles a little – apparently not catching her sarcasm. At least, I'm pretty sure she was kidding. She can't actually be _enjoying_ this, can she? Well, maybe. Maybe this part. I guess that makes sense. All this training – all this learning – I guess I can see where it might be fun, if it weren't for what has to come afterwards.

But she's actually made another smart move – whether she's realized it or not. The trainer remembered her. Remembered her name. Which means she's been interacting with the trainers. Socializing with them, even. That's something that … well, I don't think it would have occurred to me. But it's a good idea. _Any_ sort of practice interacting with Capitolites might help her during the interviews.

The interviews. That seems so far away. But the truth is that we're almost halfway through our second day of training. Tomorrow is our last day of training. Then a day of private sessions and interviews. And then…

And then the arena. In only a few days, we'll be fighting for our lives. Which means that _anything_ we learn now could be important. Any detail we pick up in the next few days could be the thing that saves our lives in the arena.

Maybe. Or maybe it's all just a ruse. Just a trick to make us _think_ that we're ready. Because how much did I really learn yesterday? How much have I really learned so far today? And how much of that is _really_ going to help us once we're in the arena? How many tributes last year ended up tying knots or building a shelter? How many ended up using any sort of first aid?

A few, I suppose. More than built a trap or a shelter. Maybe that was why Mel suggested coming to this station. Or maybe she really _did_ enjoy this station yesterday. Maybe the answer really is that simple.

No. No, nothing's ever that simple. As much as I'm thinking ahead, trying to figure out how this might help me during the Games, she must be doing the same thing. I can't afford to underestimate her, even if we're working together. Maybe _especially_ if we're working together.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

I'm not really sure whether we're working together or not – and, apparently, neither is Ada. It's something we talked about – at least briefly – during the train rides, but neither of us wanted to commit to working together. Not until we'd at least met some of the other tributes. Explored our other options.

But now that we're actually here, Ada doesn't seem particularly interested in exploring other options. We've spent the last day and a half training together, wandering from survival station to survival station. She hasn't made any move that might indicate she wants to split up.

Then again, neither have I. What if she's waiting for me to make the first move? I glance over at her as the bell rings and we head for the lunch tables – together, just like we've done everything since yesterday.

Not that I'm complaining. I mean, she's three years older than me. I should be grateful she wants to have me as an ally. But she's awfully … well, quiet. It's not that she's _bad_ company. She's certainly not rude. She's just not … particularly friendly.

Then again, that's not exactly the most important thing right now. I shouldn't be looking for people who are _friendly_. I should be looking for people who are _useful._ Does that mean her? Maybe. But maybe it doesn't _just_ have to mean her.

"Do you think we should ask anyone else to join us?" I ask as we sit down together.

Ada looks up, surprised. As if she hadn't thought about that. Maybe she was content just having me as a partner. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.

But then she nods. "Who else did you have in mind?"

Who else _did_ I have in mind? "I'm not sure," I admit. "Maybe we could split up for a little while – see who else might be interested in joining us." _If_ anyone would actually be interested in joining us.

Ada glances around the room a little, then nods. "Okay."

For a moment, there's an awkward silence. If we're going to split up, one of us has to leave. Maybe she's assuming I will, since it was my idea. After a moment, I get up, take my tray, and head for the other end of the room.

But before I can even decide where I'm going, an older boy – from District Ten, I think – waves me over to his table. "Everything okay?" he asks.

I nod as I take a seat across from him. "Yeah. I mean, we're here for a fight to the death, but aside from that—"

"Saw you and your district partner split up," he interrupts. "That's rough. My district partner didn't want to work with me, either."

His district partner. The girl from Ten seems to be working with the girl from Two and the boy from One. I can't help a sympathetic wince. If _my_ district partner had left me to join up with a couple of tributes from Capitol-supporting districts, I'd probably be a bit sore about it, too.

But she didn't. "We didn't split up," I explain. "We just thought it might be good to look for another person or two to join us – both of us."

The boy laughs a little. "What sort of person are you looking for?"

Is he volunteering? "Someone who wouldn't mind working with _us_ , I guess," I venture. "We're not exactly the most exciting partners, but—"

The boy shakes his head. "I'm not looking for someone exciting. I just didn't want…"

"To be alone," I finish.

He nods. "Exactly."

I hold out my hand. "I'm Apollo."

He shakes it. "Darrin."

"Nice to meet you. Well, except for the circumstances, I mean."

Darrin chuckles a little. "Yeah, not exactly the best of circumstances. But I think they just got a little better."

I smile. "Maybe they did." He seems friendly, at least. And willing to team up with someone even when he thought my district partner had just abandoned me. That sort of sympathy – does that mean he's someone I can trust? Or someone who was so desperate for company that he was willing to team up with anyone?

We quickly finish our lunch, and he stands up. "So, you want to introduce me to your district partner?"

I nod and turn back to where Ada was sitting. But she's not alone.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

It doesn't take long after Apollo leaves for me to realize that just sitting here and waiting isn't really my best option. I was hoping that someone might come and sit down with me – that way, I wouldn't have to go looking for anyone. But that's clearly not going to happen. And why would it? Anyone who's been watching us for the last two days has probably figured out that I'm working with Apollo. They have no way of knowing that we're looking for other people to join us – not unless I let them know.

Okay. I grip my tray tightly as I stand up. _Just find someone_. There's no reason to be this nervous. I mean, going and sitting down with someone for lunch doesn't mean I'm actually _committing_ to working with them. Apollo and I are just looking for other options. I shouldn't be this nervous.

But I _am_. Because as much as I might try to tell myself otherwise, this decision matters. _Every_ decision we make during training matters. Anything we do now might have repercussions – deadly repercussions – later on, once we're actually in the arena. What if I sit with someone now, and we don't end up working together? Will they take it the wrong way? Will they target me because of that?

I take a few more steps towards the other side of the room. Then a few more. What was I thinking – agreeing to split up? Why would Apollo suggest splitting up in the first place? Why not simply go sit down with someone together and ask if they wanted to join us? Sure, the two of us might be a little bit more intimidating together, which might put some people off. But at least then I wouldn't be trying to do this alone.

Unless … was this Apollo's way of suggesting that we split up? Was he just trying to be nice about it? If he finds someone else, will he really ask me to join them, too? Or is he gone for good?

I'm shaking a little as I slide into a seat near two younger tributes – a boy and a girl, sitting across from each other. But I try not to sit too close. Close enough that they might try to talk to me, but not close enough to _force_ them to start a conversation if they don't want to.

Fortunately, the boy scoots a little closer, and the girl follows his lead. "Hi." His voice is quiet. Cautious. Maybe wondering why I came and sat down near them.

I smile as well as I can, moving a little closer to them in return. "Hi. I'm Ada."

"Bentley. And this is Phoebe." The girl gives a little wave. "What brings you over here?"

"I…" I hesitate. Do I really want to answer that? Maybe not, but they certainly deserve some sort of explanation for why I came over and sat by them. "My district partner and I – we're working together once we're in the arena, and we thought it might help if we found a few other people who … well, who might be interested in joining us."

Bentley raises an eyebrow. "And _we're_ your first choice? Why?"

It's a fair question. Both of them are young. Younger than Apollo, even – and he's a good three years younger than me. Why would I choose them?

There's a part of me that's not even really sure of the answer myself. But sitting down next to these two seemed a lot less … dangerous, I suppose, than my other options. They seem less threatening. Less noticeable.

That's it. I smile a little. "Actually, you're exactly what we're looking for. You see, if there's a large group of us, people are going to notice. But if they don't think we're a threat – if our group is a bit on the young side – then they might leave us alone. Or they might underestimate us."

Phoebe smiles. "That makes sense."

Good. At least I sound like I'm making sense. But the truth is a bit more … complicated, I suppose, than I'd like to admit. I wasn't just staying with Apollo because he's my district partner, or because he's good company, or because he's not all that threatening. Those things are true, certainly, but there's a part of me that feels sorry for him. That wants to protect him, if I can.

But I can't. Not if I want to win. Not if I want to come home. I can't protect him – or these two, if we end up working together. In the end, if I have to choose between their lives and mine, I'll have to choose mine.

Bentley nods a little. Does he understand? Has he figured out why I picked them? Maybe. And maybe that's okay. Maybe it means that he'll trust me. But then he smiles a little, shaking his head. "That doesn't seem to be what your district partner has in mind."

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

Apollo's district partner looks a bit surprised as Apollo and I make our way over to where she's sitting with two younger tributes. I slide into a seat next to her and hold out my hand. "Hi there. I'm Darrin."

For a moment, she freezes. But then, hesitantly, she shakes my hand. "Ada."

"And who're your friends?"

"Bentley and Phoebe," she answers. "But we're not – I mean, we hadn't decided whether they wanted to—"

"To join you?" Bentley asks with a small smile. "I think that's going to be a yes."

I can't help smiling. "Great! The more, the merrier!" Maybe not technically true – given the circumstances – but, ever since Hannah said she didn't want to work with me, I'd been a bit worried that no one else would want to, either. At the start of training today, I didn't have _any_ partners. Now…

Now, I have four. All younger than me, sure, but who cares about that? Pretty much _anyone_ in the arena is going to be younger than me. And if last year taught us one thing, it was that age doesn't really matter once you're in the Games.

If anyone, it's Ada that looks a bit uncomfortable. "Yeah, merrier," she agrees quietly – although not very convincingly. "And if it doesn't work out – I mean, if you decide you don't want to work together – then, you know, no hard feelings, right?"

Phoebe nods quickly. "Right. Five is a big group. Do you really think it's…?"

"Safe?" Apollo finishes.

"Yeah. The biggest group last year was … what? Three?"

She's right. There were a couple groups of three last year. The boy from Two, girl from Three, and boy from Eight started out together, but they quickly split up. Then the boy from Two joined up with the boys from One and Three, but that ended quickly, too – though not because of any sort of disagreement. Larger groups didn't really seem to last long in the arena. We'd definitely be trying something new. Rewriting the rules of the game, so to speak.

But that doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad idea. "Sure, there weren't any large groups last year," I agree. "But there are already a couple groups of three this year – if everyone who's together now stays together, that is." That includes Hannah, who seems to be working with the boy from One and the girl from Two. Not something I would have guessed, but maybe she figures if she teams up with the loyalists, no one will figure out she's a rebel. Or maybe … well, maybe she's hoping to turn on them. Maybe she thinks it'll be easier to take them down if she's with them, if she's earned their trust.

But that's not my problem. Or, at least, it _shouldn't_ be my problem. Sure, she's my district partner, but she made it pretty clear that she didn't want to work with me. So why should I be concerned about her strategy? Would she be so concerned about mine? I doubt it.

"Besides," Apollo adds, "just because it wasn't something tributes did last year doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad idea. This year is completely different. Different arena, different tributes – we have no idea what to expect."

Maybe that was supposed to sound comforting. But he's absolutely right. We have no idea what to expect. When it comes down to it, we have no way of knowing whether forming this large a group is a good idea or not – because no one's ever done it before. And maybe we aren't the likeliest bunch – certainly not the group that people would expect to come together and trust in strength in numbers – but that just means that people won't expect it.

And that – maybe that's an advantage in and of itself. "I bet the audience will love it," I offer. "It's something new. Something different. They love that here."

And I have to admit, so do I. I like the idea of doing something unexpected – because we saw how the expected played out last year. Tributes did what they were expected to do, and most of them died.

I'm not stupid enough to believe _that_ will be any different this year – that we're not going to kill each other – but at least we won't make the same mistakes that some of last year's tributes did. But I can't help wondering if just means we'll be making new ones.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

There's a part of me that's still wondering if I made a mistake. Darrin, Ada, Apollo, Phoebe, and I spent the rest of training together, and they seem like a pretty good group. None of them were particularly good at the weapons stations, but that's not exactly something I can claim to be an expert at myself, either. Maybe … well, maybe we were made for each other.

At least I've _found_ some people to work with. As we head back for our rooms, it still doesn't seem like Aria's found anyone. And her options are starting to run thin. Almost everyone seems to be working with someone – even if it's just their district partner. Even the boy from Eight seems to have found someone. He spent most of the day tagging along with the boy from Three, who seemed delighted to have someone with him. If Aria _wants_ to work with someone, she needs to figure out who – and soon.

But maybe she doesn't. Maybe this is exactly the way she wants it. There were a couple tributes who started out on their own last year. Maybe she figures the Games will be easier if she doesn't have anyone with her. If she doesn't have the chance to get attached.

And maybe she's right. Because I actually … enjoyed myself today. I enjoyed having people to work with. People to talk to, to discuss strategies with, to practice with. And that … that's dangerous. Because if I want to make it out of the arena alive, they have to die. All of them. Darrin and Ada and Apollo and Phoebe. All of them have to die.

I don't know if I'm ready for that.

"How did it go?" General Tyrone's voice greets us as we enter the room.

Aria rolls her eyes and heads for her bedroom without a word or a bite to eat. I slide into a seat at the table, glancing up at Tyrone. "I found some people to work with."

Tyrone nods a little, filling his plate. "Tell me about them."

I start to fill my own plate, as well. "Well, there's Ada and Apollo. They're from District Five. Darrin's from District Ten. Phoebe's from Eleven. She's the youngest, but, not that much younger than me, really. Apollo's a little older, and Ada and Darrin – they're seventeen and eighteen."

Tyrone can't hide a hint of a smile. "That's not what I meant."

"Pardon?"

"I meant, _tell me about them._ Not their names and ages – I could look those up on the tape of the reaping. What do you _know_ about them?"

I take a few bites of some sort of meat – which is delicious – before answering. "Phoebe … I started working with her first. I was practicing at the fire-starting station—"

"Even though you're already perfectly competent," Tyrone notes.

I can feel my face getting warmer. He's right. I should have been spending my time trying to learn something new. But it was early in the morning. I was still tired. I'd wanted to start with something familiar. Or maybe … well, maybe I hadn't really wanted to start thinking about _killing_ yet.

Maybe I still don't. Is that the reason I joined a large group of tributes? Was I just hoping that maybe _they_ would do the killing for me for a while? Or that, with five of us, others might be less likely to target us?

I swallow another few bites before continuing. "I … she didn't really know what she was doing, so I offered to help, and she … well, I guess she took that as an offer to let her join me, because she followed me to lunch – and then Ada came and joined us, and it turned out she and her district partner had split up to look for people to work with, so … now there are five of us."

Tyrone nods. "Do you trust them?"

I hesitate. "I … I guess … I don't really know them that well, but—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't trust them. You can't afford to trust _anyone_ in the Games – even those who might appear to be your friends."

I shake my head. He's not saying anything that hadn't been in the back of my head all day, but I figured a war general might have a different take on things. "But when you were at war, you … you trusted the soldiers you were with, didn't you?"

Tyrone nods. "I did. I still would. But my life didn't depend on them _dying_ in a matter of days. These people you're working with – they may pretend to be your friends. They may pretend to trust you. But believe me, they don't." He lays a hand on my shoulder. "So you can't, either."


	14. The Same

**The Same**

" _Will they know what you overcame? Will they know you rewrote the game? The world will never be the same."_

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

It's almost funny how quickly the two of us – Elinor and I – have fallen into a routine of sorts. We've begun each training day the same way – picking one of the survival sessions and spending the morning there, soaking up all we can. In the afternoons, we've been working at the weapons stations. Trying to learn a little of everything. Trying to keep a balance.

We start today the same way. Yesterday, I chose the edible plants station, assuming – apparently quite rightly – that Elinor was probably just as inexperienced as I was in that area. Today, however, Elinor heads for the snare-setting station, and I follow her. The trainer looks up with a smile, clearly delighted to have someone stopping by this early in the morning. "Excellent," she beams. "Welcome to the most difficult station in the room."

Elinor raises an eyebrow. "What's so hard about tying a few knots or looping a rope around a tree?" And even though I might not have put it like _that_ , I have to admit I was wondering the same thing. If someone had asked me to pinpoint the most difficult skill to learn, I would have guessed swordplay, maybe. Or shooting a bow. Or something that required a lot of physical training – training I obviously haven't had.

But the trainer simply laughs a little. "Oh, so you think _that's_ what setting traps is about, do you?"

Elinor nods to the example snares behind the trainer. A trip wire that will drop a load of rocks from a branch. Another that would loop around a person's leg and catch them. A third that would drop a net onto someone. "Looks like a lot of knot-tying to me," Elinor shrugs.

The trainer motions for us to sit down. I do, and Elinor follows. "Yes, building a snare isn't particularly taxing or time-consuming. But knowing _where_ to put it – anticipating the other person's exact movements – _that's_ the hard part. Tell me, how would you make sure someone puts themselves in a position to get caught in your trap?"

I'm still thinking that through when Elinor ventures a guess. "Leave some food lying around?"

The trainer shrugs. "That might help you catch an _animal._ But what would _you_ think if you saw food just lying out in the open?"

"That it was a trap," Elinor admits.

"Exactly. You have to assume that the other tributes are going to be just as smart as you – or if not as smart, then at least as aware. _Everyone_ is going to be on the lookout for traps."

Elinor shakes her head. "So how do you make a trap _not_ look like a trap?"

"You don't," the trainer answers vaguely. "You have to make something that's not a trap _into_ a trap."

"What?" Elinor's face is starting to turn red. For a moment, she looks like she's about to storm away from the station. But this particular station was _her_ idea in the first place. There must be some part of her that realizes it could be important.

And I think I'm actually beginning to understand. "Do you mean…" I start, and the trainer turns towards me with a smile, as if to say, _go ahead._ "Do you mean that instead of trying to lure a person into a trap, you need to set a trap where you know they're going to be?"

The trainer beams. "Exactly. It's not about getting them to go where you want them. It's about making where they already _are_ work to your advantage. Does that make sense?"

I nod. "Sort of. A little. It's like … trains at the station. We don't really have control over which ones are there, when they're arriving, when they need to leave. Everything's in motion, and we can't control all of it. We can only control what we do when the trains _are_ there."

The trainer smiles. "It sounds like you're good at your job. What's your name?"

"Jae Park. My father and I work at the station. And this is Elinor," I add quickly, not wanting her to feel left out. Not wanting her to get jealous.

But why would she? Because a trainer gave me a compliment? That would be silly. Elinor simply nods. "What's yours?"

"Amelia." She hands each of us a rope. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Elinor shakes her head. "I thought you said this wasn't about tying knots."

Amelia nods. "It's not. But even if you've figured out the perfect place for a snare, you still have to be able to _make_ one. So we'll start with that … and see how far we can go."

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

It's amazing how far a little humor can go in a rough spot. It took Atleigh a while to warm up to me, but now the kid is laughing at pretty much anything I say. We've spent the last hour or so at the edible bugs station, and I've spent a good part of it pretending to eat the poisonous ones and miming choking, being poisoned, dying. Atleigh has been giggling pretty much the whole time, and, I have to admit, so have I.

We must seem quite the strange pair to anyone passing by. Probably why, aside from the two of us, this station has been pretty bare. But as long as I've found _someone_ to work with – someone who doesn't seem to mind a lame joke or two – I'm good. Even if that someone is a twelve-year-old kid. Hell, _I_ was a twelve-year-old kid once. Maybe he'll live to be my age if he's lucky.

No. No, that's not good. Because as much as I _do_ want him to live, I want _me_ to live more. I keep sorting the bugs into piles. There's supposed to be a pile of edible bugs and a pile of non-edible bugs. But they all look alike. They're all small and creepy and don't look very filling, anyway, even if they _are_ edible.

"Wonder what they'd do if someone actually ate one," I ponder aloud, tossing another bug into Atleigh's pile of edible ones. "One of the poisonous ones, that is. What if one of us actually died before the Games? What would they do then?"

"I don't know," Atleigh admits. "You'd think they'd want to keep us alive until the Games, but they _did_ put us in a room with a bunch of sharp objects and poisonous things. If we really _wanted_ to start killing each other now, there wouldn't be much they could do to stop us."

I nod. "I guess they're counting on us not really _wanting_ to kill each other."

Atleigh smirks. "What makes you think I don't want to?"

It's my turn to laugh – and, after a moment, he laughs, too. "Just kidding," he shrugs. "If I'd really wanted to kill you, I could've slipped a bug in your lunch yesterday."

He could've – that's true. And I probably wouldn't have known the difference until it was too late. That's a scary thought, now that he's brought it up. Any of us could already have killed someone else – but we haven't. No one's really wanted to start the killing yet. If we did…

But those aren't the rules. We have to wait until we're in the arena, or … what? What would the Capitol do to someone who wanted to start fighting early? What would they do if a brawl broke out in the training area, or someone poisoned another tribute's lunch? What _could_ they do? By the time they tried to stop it, it would be too late.

Too late to save the victim, yes. But not too late to retaliate. Not too late to make sure that the person responsible paid for it. Because while the Gamemakers might not be able to control exactly who makes it out of the arena alive, they can certainly see to it that a particular tribute dies. It was no mistake last year that all the rebels were killed. And someone who wanted to start fighting early – even if their only intention was survival – _could_ be seen as a rebel.

And that's not something I want. Not something I ever wanted. Sure, I have friends who were rebels. And I have friends who were loyalists. Not something I ever really thought much about. Certainly not something I want to get killed over. Not that I want to get killed over _anything._ Not that I want to get killed at all. But if I'm going to die, I don't want it to be because I tried to start the fighting too soon.

If I'm going to die. Maybe I am. But if I'm going to die, this is how I want to go – laughing, with a little kid by my side. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would. But it's better than living in fear. Better than moping around, waiting for the end. Better than constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering when someone's going to find me, wondering if my next move might cost me my life. I can't live like that. If I'm going to die, I want to make damn sure that I get a chance to _live_ first.

* * *

 **Atleigh Chaplin, 12  
** **District Eight**

I just hope Rick doesn't get himself killed before we're even in the arena. Not that I think he would do it on purpose – despite his fooling around with the bugs – but all it would take is one stupid accident, and I'd be alone. And that's something I definitely don't want – not yet, at least. Eventually, he has to die. They all do. But not yet.

Not yet. Those two words seem to hang like a cloud over everything we do. There's a part of me that wishes we were already in the arena. Not that I'm looking forward to fighting. To killing. To the very real possibility of dying. But that would be better than waiting. Better than wondering, dreading what might happen once we're actually in the Games.

Rick doesn't seem to share that attitude, though. He seems determined to enjoy whatever time we have here in the Capitol. Yesterday during lunch he couldn't stop making jokes about the food. And while that's a bit annoying, it's also … fascinating. There's something about him that draws attention.

That could be good or bad, I suppose, once we're actually in the Games. But right now, it seems to be an advantage. Anyone who happens to notice us will notice _him_ before me – if they notice me at all. All they'll see is an older tribute goofing off. Are they really going to notice the twelve-year-old laughing at his antics? If so, they almost certainly won't see me as a threat.

I'm not kidding anyone, of course. They won't see me as a threat because I'm _not_ a threat – at least not in the usual sense. I'm not a threat in a fair fight. Then again, neither is Rick. He's older than me, yes, but he's been avoiding the weapons stations for three days. There are good reasons a tribute might want to avoid weapons, of course. Other tributes might be trying to hide their skills, trying not to make themselves a target.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that's not Rick's reason. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to kill. Whether he'll be willing to when it comes down to it, I'm not really sure. But I _do_ know that, of the two of us, any attacker is likely to go after him first.

And that's the point, really. I didn't say yes to his offer because I thought he was going to be good in a fight, or even because I figured I wasn't likely to get a better one – although that was probably true, as well. I thought about trying to join one of the larger groups, but would any of them have wanted a twelve-year-old kid? The group of five, maybe – they've already got a twelve-year-old, thirteen-year-old, and fourteen-year-old, after all. There's no reason they wouldn't want one more.

But that many tributes – that many _younger_ tributes … I don't know. They're already likely to be the largest group in the arena, and that paints a target on their backs – no matter how young some of them may be. And it's a target I don't want anywhere near me.

Eventually, of course, we're all targets. Eventually, age doesn't matter. Eventually, everyone is an opponent. An obstacle standing between me and home.

"What do you say we try another station?" Rick offers. "This one's starting to _bug_ me."

I giggle, hoping he can't tell that the laugh is forced. That I'm trying to humor him. That I'm hoping he'll be useful once we're in the arena. If not…

If not, I can just leave him. There's no shame in that – and no harm. After all, we've only known each other for a few days. It's not as if we're really friends.

And even if we were, eventually it's going to be every man for himself. Eventually, he's going to have to die if I want to go home. But not yet.

Not yet. There are those words again. I shake my head as Rick heads for the knot-tying station. I follow him without question. There's a part of me that's itching to try the weapons stations, but I don't want to seem too eager. I don't want him to realize what I'm willing to do in order to make it home. What _all_ of us are willing to do.

That's what the Capitol's counting on, after all. Even tributes like Rick who clearly don't _want_ to kill – they'll do it if their lives are on the line. The tributes last year did. There's no reason to think this year will be any different.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

I can't help wondering if we should have played things differently – Ivone and I. I suggested yesterday – and the day before – that it might be a good idea to socialize a little more. That it might be good to try to join one of the groups that was forming, especially once it became clear that there are going to be some larger groups. Last year, most of the tributes only had one partner, so sticking with just Ivone didn't seem like such a bad idea at first. But now…

Now I'm not sure we'd have any options even if we _did_ want to join a group. But Ivone doesn't seem to have a problem with that. We've been sparring with one of the trainers at the sword station, and she doesn't seem to be the least bit bothered by the fact that we're still alone. Does she figure we're better off this way, not drawing attention to ourselves? Or does she have something else in mind?

I could just ask her, I suppose. But there's a part of me that feels silly for wondering. A part that doesn't want to admit that I haven't figured out what her plan is – if she even has a plan. So I keep playing along, swinging my short sword as well as I can, hoping that she knows what she's doing.

Just as I'm about to suggest that we take a break for lunch, however, I hear footsteps, and, out of the corner of my eye, I can see someone coming towards us. More than one someone, maybe. "Now," Ivone whispers, and swings a little harder than she has been. I join her attack, and the trainer backs up a little. Then a little more. He dodges. Strikes. Again and again. But somehow, Ivone and I manage to fend off his attacks.

"Not bad." A voice from behind me interrupts the fight, and the trainer takes a step back as Ivone and I turn to face the newcomers – the boy from One and the girls from Two and Ten. "Not bad at all," the girl from Ten continues. "A bit sloppy, but for two and a half days of practice … not bad."

I raise an eyebrow. "I suppose you could do better?" Wrong thing to say. She probably can. The two girls, I remember, were volunteers. They _chose_ to be here. Why would they do that unless they were certain they had a good chance of winning? But they can't _both_ win. And, if _I_ want to win, neither of them can.

"You'll have to excuse Isaac," Ivone apologizes. "It's been a long day."

"A long _three_ days," the girl agrees. "No offense taken. Quite the opposite, actually. We were wondering if you'd be interested in joining us."

"Joining you?" Ivone asks, faking surprise. And faking it fairly well, I might add. But she can't fool me. Not after telling me to fight harder once she was certain these three were watching us. She was trying to impress them. Was this her plan all along – to wait for them to offer us an alliance?

I have to admit, it's a good plan. If _we_ had asked _them_ , we might have come across as needy. Desperate. Two outer-district tributes asking for their protection. Even if they'd said yes, we might simply have been last-minute additions to their group. But since _they_ came to _us,_ we must have made a good enough impression.

Or maybe … maybe _they're_ getting a little desperate. They know they're not the largest group in the arena, even if they're three of the older, more prepared tributes. Maybe even they're starting to realize that there might be strength in numbers.

The girl from Ten nods, and Ivone glances over at me. Looking for my approval. But it's clear from her gaze that she already knows the answer. That there _is_ only one answer. If this was her plan all along, I'd be an idiot not to go along with it now. I nod, and she smiles. "Guess that makes us the biggest group in the arena. I'm Ivone, and this is my district partner, Isaac."

"Hannah. This is Ra and Jayda."

Jayda smiles. "Good to meet you two. Join us for lunch?"

Ivone nods. "Love to." But as the five of us head for the cafeteria, I can't shake the feeling that this is a little too perfect. If this is what Ivone was planning all along, why didn't she tell me? Did she simply not want to look stupid if she ended up being wrong, if they didn't ask us to join them? Or maybe this was never the plan. Maybe she simply saw an opportunity and took it. I'm not sure which idea I like better – or which one makes her more dangerous.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

I'm still not sure what made me do it – what made me want to impress these three. What made me think that joining them was a good idea. But if there's one thing I learned during the rebellion, it was how to trust my instincts. And every instinct is telling me this is the right chance to take.

I'm not kidding myself, of course. It's a chance. A gamble. Joining these three this late during training means we could simply be seen as tag-alongs. As extra weight. They've been together for a few days. They know each other – maybe even trust each other. As much as any of us can trust each other in the Games, I suppose. We're now the wild cards in the bunch. The ones they can't really be sure of.

But maybe that's a good thing. They don't really know us, but, by the same token, they don't know what we're capable of. Not really. They might underestimate us – two kids from District Twelve. And being underestimated can be an advantage.

So we sit down. We have lunch together. We talk. I avoid talking about what I did during the war. Isaac avoids talking about his family. Hannah and Jayda avoid talking about why they volunteered. And Ra … well, he doesn't say much at all. Mostly, he's just watching. Observing. As if he's taking notes for later.

That much, at least, I can understand. How long was he watching Isaac and me before finally convincing the others that it would be a good idea to ask us to join them? And why us, rather than one of the other groups they could have picked? There are a couple of other older outer-district groups. The pair from Six. The girl from Eight and the boys from Nine and Eleven. A group of three would have brought their numbers up to six, and then they _would_ have been the largest group in the arena.

Because, as it is, we're tied for the largest group. There's another group of five – the pair from Five, the boys from Seven and Ten, and the girl from Eleven. Sure, most of them are younger, but does that really matter? Or are they just as much of a threat as we are?

Eventually, of course, everyone's a threat. Even the people I'm eating lunch with right now. Maybe _especially_ them, because they'll know where I am. They'll have some idea of what I can do. Even Isaac – eventually, he'll have to die if I want to go home. Home to my father and Ramsey.

"So what's the plan?" Isaac asks at last – maybe tired of the small talk. "Once we're in the arena, I mean. What's our first move?"

Hannah shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but Jayda's smiling – maybe relieved that someone is finally talking business. She volunteered for this, after all. She wants to be here – more than the rest of us, at least. There must be some part of her that's itching for the Games to start. That wishes we were already in the arena.

And there's a part of me that agrees. An hour ago, I wouldn't have. An hour ago, I was only working with Isaac. But now that I have _four_ allies, now that everything seems to be falling into place, there's a strange feeling in my stomach. The same feeling of anticipation that I would get before Ramsey and I would pull off a smuggling job. That was just as risky, really. Maybe even more so. After all, most tributes in the arena will want to make their kills as quickly and as painlessly as possible. The Capitol wouldn't have been so considerate.

On the other hand, this is different. At least during the war, I could trust the people I was working with. I would have trusted Ramsey with my life. I still would. These other tributes, though – Hannah, Jayda, Ra, and even Isaac – each of us knows that the others are going to have to die. That this idea of teamwork can't last forever. That only one of us is going to make it out of the Games alive.

Still, having a plan seems like a good idea. But all of us know that we can't stick to the plan forever. That whatever plan we come up with will have to change once we're in the arena. Once people start dying. Once members of our _team_ start dying. We'll have to be ready for that.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 17  
** **District Seven**

I'm as ready as I can hope to be. That's what I keep trying to tell myself, at least. I swing my axe one more time, striking the dummy in front of me straight through the neck. Easy. But that's just a dummy. Dummies don't fight back. Dummies aren't as desperate to kill _me_ as I am to kill them. Once we're actually in the arena…

But there's nothing I could do to prepare for that. Not really. I've been sparring with some of the trainers, but even that isn't as good for practice as they'd like to pretend. The trainers have … well, training. Most of the tributes won't – aside from these three days we've been training, of course. And the trainers aren't _actually_ trying to kill us. Once we're in the arena, my opponents won't be pulling their punches or tapping me with their weapons. They'll be trying to stab and beat and choke me.

Which is why I plan on putting as much distance between myself and everyone else as possible – as quickly as possible. Everyone else seems eager to team up with someone else – or, in Bentley's case, quite a few other people. There are two groups of five now. That's nearly half the tributes in groups larger than any in the arena last year.

I suppose I should be grateful for that. Groups that large will draw a lot of the attention. Whether they meant to or not, they've just made themselves everyone's targets. Everyone knows they're the tributes to beat – or, at least, I hope so. I hope they'll go after the larger groups because they're a threat.

The alternative, of course, is that they might come after me – a lone tribute – because I seem like easy pickings. Which is why I'll have to get away quickly. It's easier for one person to hide than it is for a group of five to try to avoid attention. Once I'm safely away from the rest of the tributes…

Then what? I won't be able to hide forever. But maybe if I stay hidden – at least at first – then I'll be able to choose my battles, rather than fighting every tribute I happen to come across. Last year, after all, some of the tributes who managed to avoid fights for the first day or two made it to the end. Even the Victor, Maverick, didn't kill anyone until the third day.

But he still killed. Which is exactly what I'm going to have to do if I want to survive this. Which means that, eventually, I'm going to have to get my hands on a weapon – or make one myself. Last year, there was a pile of weapons in the center of the arena at the start of the Games. Most of the tributes ran away, but a few came back later – after everyone else had gone – to collect the weapons they needed. Do the Gamemakers have the same sort of thing planned for this year?

Maybe. But I can't count on that. We can't count on anything being the same as last year. Last year's tributes had _no_ idea of what to expect, and maybe … maybe that was better. Because they couldn't be soothed into _thinking_ that they knew what was coming, when the Gamemakers could very easily have planned something else entirely. We have no way of knowing which elements of this year's Games might be similar to last year's, and which might be entirely different. In a way, we're in the same position as last year's tributes.

I swing my axe again. There's a certain frustration to not knowing, but there's also something that's … almost freeing. I don't really need to come up with a plan, because almost any plan I have will be useless once we're actually in the arena. There's no way we could hope to account for everything that will happen once the Games begin. So it's almost pointless to try.

Almost. I've thought through a few options, of course. A few basic strategies. Whether I should try to get a weapon right away or wait until later. Whether I want to work with some of the other tributes or not. But just the basics. Anything more concrete than that isn't really worth the trouble, since any sort of plan will have to be adjusted once the Games start.

But working in a group … well, that was an easy decision to make. Such an easy decision that I'm rather surprised none of the other tributes made the same choice. All of them seem to be working with someone. Which is fine … until one of them dies. And then what? What happens when they have to choose between their own life or the life of one of their allies, their friends? What happens when they realize that they can't even trust each other? It certainly seemed better to me not to trust anyone in the first place.

* * *

 **Elinor Siesto, 18  
** **District Six**

It certainly feels better to be back at the weapons stations again. Not that traps aren't likely to be useful or anything – they probably will be. And Jae certainly seems to have caught on rather quickly. Me? I'm happier with the knives I have in my hands right now. If I have a weapon, I won't have to wait and see whether someone's actually going to wander into my trap at the right time. Less waiting – more acting.

Jae, on the other hand, seems perfectly content to wait and see what's going to happen. And maybe that's good. Maybe that way, we'll keep each other in check. He'll keep me from rushing into a fight, and I'll keep him from sitting around and waiting the whole Games away. Of course, waiting it out might not be such a bad plan if we had a reason to believe it would actually _work_. But the Gamemakers have ways of driving tributes together. Last year, there was a panther mutt and a fire – and although the tributes were the ones who actually _started_ the fire, the Gamemakers certainly didn't do anything to slow it down.

Because it was _interesting_. It got people moving. And that's the Gamemakers' job, in the end – to make sure things keep moving along at an interesting pace. So maybe it's better for us if we keep moving of our own volition – that way, we're less likely to be mauled or burned in the process of getting where the Gamemakers want us to go.

I throw another knife, finally managing to hit the dummy in the chest. "Nice!" Jae grins, and I take a few steps back. Sure, I finally hit the thing, but by the time a tribute is actually that close, they could just as easily have thrown something at _me_. And maybe that's where Jae has the right idea. Maybe the best plan is to try to let them get close _without_ letting them know where we are. To act before they do.

Jae throws his own knife, and it spins awkwardly in the air before the handle bounces off the dummy's head. "Guess I figured out what I'm _not_ showing the Gamemakers tomorrow," he mumbles.

I have to admit, I haven't given much thought to what I'm going to show them. Training scores didn't seem to matter much last year, aside from giving tributes something to talk about during the interviews. The kid who won only scored a four, after all – one of the lowest scores given out last year.

But nothing's the same this year. This year, it's common knowledge that gifts are going to be sent to tributes during the Games. Last year, training scores didn't seem to factor much into that, either. The first tribute to recieve a gift was the boy from Eleven, a cripple with a missing arm who'd only managed a two during training and died shortly after receiving his gift. But maybe the Capitol will have learned from last year. Maybe they'll decide to send gifts to tributes who actually have a chance of winning.

And our training scores are the first indication they'll have of who might fit that description. But that doesn't really change anything. Sure, I'll try my best, but that's what I was planning to do, anyway. It wasn't as if I was going to waltz in there and tell them off or anything. Not as if I was planning to sit down, eat a few berries, and leave.

No, as useful as learning some survival skills has been, that's not what they'll want to see. They'll want to see weapons, so that's what they'll get. The private sessions weren't broadcast last year – just the scores – so I'm not really sure what to expect. Will there be someone there to spar against, or will I be stuck throwing knives at a bunch of dummies and hoping they don't realize how poor a representation of the Games that actually is?

I throw another knife, this one missing the target by a few inches. They're not interested in accuracy. Never have been. If they were really interested in judging based on ability alone, they would never have given the boy from Four such a low score last year. They just want a good show. They want to create drama. And whether for better or worse, they're sure to get it.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

Whether for better or worse, training is almost over. I still don't feel ready, but at least I feel a bit more … comfortable, I suppose. But that's not really because I've spent the last three days trying to pick up as much information as I can. It's because of the _people_ I've managed to pick up. The people who, for one reason or another, thought teaming up with a twelve-year-old from District Eleven was a good idea.

The people who will have to die if I want to make it home.

That thought lingers as the five of us head back to our rooms. No matter how much I might like the people I'm working with, no matter how comfortable I may feel around them, no matter how much I might want to trust them … I can't. None of us can. Ultimately, we're working together not because we want to help each other, but because each of us thinks the others are going to help keep _us_ alive. And, ultimately, at least four of us will be wrong. At least four of us will be dead. I'll just have to keep hoping that it won't be all of us. That it won't be _me._

But hoping for it … that's not really going to be enough. I have to be willing to work for it. To fight for it. To kill for it. A week ago, if someone had asked me if there was anything I was willing to kill for, I would have said no. Nothing would have been worth that. But my own life … now that it comes down to it, that seems like a pretty good reason.

Maybe that's selfish. Maybe it's petty and small. Especially after growing up with the rebellion, with people telling tales of laying down their lives for something greater than themselves. Is there anything, I wonder, that I would do _that_ for? That I would be willing not just to kill for, but to die for?

I honestly don't know.

I glance over at Bentley and Darrin as Ada and Apollo leave the elevator. The questions I'm asking – those are questions for soldiers. Or at least for adults. Not for twelve and thirteen year old kids. Not for Bentley and me. Even Darrin seems so young, when you really think about it. Eighteen years. That's not enough. Not enough time. Not long enough for a life. It's not fair.

Darrin lays a hand on my shoulder and the other on Bentley's as the elevator starts to climb again. "It's okay. It'll be okay. Just get through tomorrow, and … well, we'll deal with the Games once they start."

 _Just get through tomorrow._ Private sessions, and then interviews. A week ago, the thought of that would have been terrifying enough. That much attention – it's something I've never wanted. I just wanted to live my life in peace. I never asked for this. For any of it.

But compared to the threat of the Games … well, showing off for the Gamemakers doesn't seem like such a terrible thing. Even being onstage with the entire Capitol looking at me doesn't sound so bad anymore. After all, they'll be watching us once we're in the Games, too – we just won't be able to see them. And that's worse. I'd rather have them watching me on a stage, laughing along with their host, than have them watching me fight. Watching me die.

No. No, I'm not going to die. I can't start thinking like that. Not now. I have an alliance. I have some training. I have a chance. Maybe not as good a chance as some of the others, but still a chance. I have to keep holding onto that.

Bentley leaves the elevator next, giving Darrin and me a small wave and a hint of a smile. Darrin squeezes my shoulder gently. "You'll be all right."

I wish I could believe it. I wish I could believe that he _meant_ it. But he can't – I know that. Because he wants to live, just as much as any of the rest of us do. And if he's going to live, then I have to die. It's as simple as that. We can try to encourage each other now, but once we're in the Games…

Well, like he said, we'll deal with the Games once they start. There's no point in worrying about them now. Now, the best thing I can do is get some food and then some sleep. Then we have one more day in the Capitol. One more day of good food and fancy clothes and a warm bed. After that … after that, nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

 **And that's it for training. Private sessions, training scores, and interviews are up next - the Games are approaching fast!**

 **On that note, a bloodbath poll is now up on my profile. Who do you _think_ will die in the bloodbath? Also, just to be clear, the fact that you can select up to twelve tributes does _not_ necessarily mean that's how many will die in the bloodbath. It just seemed like a good upper limit on what we thought might be reasonable, since eleven tributes die in the bloodbath in the first book. It will almost certainly not be that many this early on in the Hunger Games. Last time, it was four, so ... somewhere between four and twelve.**

 **For the record, this poll doesn't have any effect on who _actually_ dies in the bloodbath. The poll _after_ this, however, will have some effect on the Games.**

 **Lastly, results of the favorite tribute poll are up on the blog. Congrats to Charlotte, who seems to be an early favorite, and to Julian, Rick, and Jae, who were close behind.**


	15. A Lot Harder

**A Lot Harder**

" _Got a lot farther by working a lot harder."_

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

This is going to be a lot harder than I thought. Not that I ever thought winning the Hunger Games was going to be _easy._ No, we all know better than that. Even last year's Victor had more than a few close calls. But I volunteered figuring that, even if I hadn't had much training with actual weapons, being in good physical shape and having good stamina would put me at something of an advantage, at least.

And maybe it does – at least, against the tributes with no training, no experience. But Hannah – she hasn't been shy about showing off just how prepared she is, just how much experience she has. Physically, I'm in better condition. But she has the mental conditioning from actually fighting in the rebellion. She doesn't have to question whether or not she'll be able to kill. She already has – I'm certain of it.

Not that she's talked about it. But she doesn't have to. It's clear as the twenty-four of us take our seats in the waiting area, ready to be called for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. She's ready to be done with the lights and the show. She'd rather be in the arena already.

And, if I'm being honest, there's a part of me that understands that. A part that just wishes we could get this over with – one way or the other. It's not that I'm looking forward to fighting. To killing. Not really. But the waiting – that's even worse.

"Charlotte Jacquard," a voice calls, and the rest of us take our seats, resigned to waiting for our turn. I slide into the seat labeled "2F," next to Julian. At least we don't have it as bad as some. Assuming they continue in district order, we'll have our own turns shortly. Hannah, on the other hand, will have to wait until almost the end.

Maybe that'll give me an advantage. Maybe the Gamemakers will be tired by the time they get around to her. There's a part of me that feels bad for thinking it. For competing with her. But, in the end, that's what we _all_ are – competition. And her more than most. She fought for the rebels, after all. That should make us enemies.

But the past few days, spending time with her – with all of them – nothing seems quite that simple anymore. Maybe it was a mistake getting to know them. They're going to be dead soon, anyway – or I will. But Ra was right – there's strength in numbers. And it would be near impossible to work with some of them _without_ getting to know them, at least a little.

Charlotte's turn passes quickly, as does Ra's. I can't help wondering what he's decided to show them, but I know better than to ask. I can't afford to pry, or to doubt his abilities – not when teaming up was his idea in the first place.

His idea. It was his idea for us to work together. His idea to recruit Hannah, that first day of training. His idea to look for other members for our group, once it became obvious that there was going to be a group of five in the arena. His idea to try to match their numbers – to invite the pair from Twelve to join us. For all Hannah's experience, for all the training I've put in over the last year, it seems to be Ra who's calling the shots.

Maybe that's a good thing. He's had some good ideas – at least, so far. Whether they're _actually_ good ideas or not, I guess we'll find out once we're in the arena. But I can't think of any of these four right now that I _wouldn't_ want as an ally in the arena. He's made some good decisions, and I should be grateful for that. But there's a part of me that's jealous that _I_ wasn't the one with the ideas. _I'm_ the one who's been training, after all. I'm the one who's been preparing for this.

And I'm about to find out just how prepared I am. "Jayda Greggory," the voice calls as the door opens. I pass Ra on the way in, and he smirks a little. A smirk that no longer annoys me. Maybe I've gotten used to it. Maybe I'm counting on the idea that, once we're in the arena, actually being in the Games will be enough to wipe that smug look off his face.

I head straight for the weapons as I enter. No point in doing otherwise, really. The Gamemakers don't want to see us show off our survival skills. They want to see a fight. So that's exactly what they're going to get. I choose a short sword, and the trainer on hand does the same. "Whenever you're ready," he nods.

I barely wait for him to finish the sentence. I charge immediately. I can't afford to appear hesitant. I can't let them see any doubts … even if I'm starting to have them. Even if I'm starting to question whether I'm really ready for this. Whether a year of running and lifting has been enough to really prepare me for a death match.

I can't let myself think of any of that. After a moment, the trainer and I fall into a rhythm. Swing, block, swing, block. He doesn't try anything fancy. Is he holding back? Trying to make me look better? Maybe. I swing harder, then duck beneath his next blow. He takes a step back, avoiding my swing, then charges.

Minutes pass. It feels like seconds. Almost like no time at all. This … this is just practice. But it's good practice. By the time I'm finished, I'm sweating hard, but I'm satisfied as some sort of buzzer rings, signaling the end of my time. I take a bow and head for the door, smiling. That went about as well as I could have hoped.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

Waiting is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought. There's a table in the corner with snacks, but I'm not really hungry yet. Still, I get up and walk over, because it's something to do. Something to distract me from the fact that we're being called, one by one, to show off how well we'll be able to kill each other.

Mel nods, as if she understands. Maybe she does. Maybe she's just as impatient as I am. It's not that I want to be in the arena, but there's a part of me that is starting to think it can't be worse than this. It can't be worse than waiting, wondering, trying to figure out if I have what it takes to survive.

I eat a few crackers, washing them down with some juice. Trying to think of something better to show the Gamemakers than the survival skills we've been practicing for the last few days. We ventured over to the weapons stations a few times, but nothing really seemed to stick. Not surprising, I guess. We've only had three days to learn how to kill each other. What did they really expect us to learn in that amount of time?

"What are you going to show them?" The words leave my mouth before I realize I probably shouldn't ask. If she has something special planned, she's certainly not going to tell me, especially with all the other tributes here. Why would I think I would get an answer to that?

But Mel simply shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I just figured I'd think of something while I was waiting. Not really worried about my score, anyway."

Now that _is_ a surprise. "Why not?"

Mel shrugs. "They're just numbers," she answers in a low voice. "I mean, look at last year's Victor. He got what? A four in training? If anything, scoring low might be a good thing. It could mean we're not as much of a threat – and not as much of a target."

She has a point. But there's a part of me – a more competitive part, maybe – that wants to do well, anyway. That _wants_ to be seen as a threat, even if I'm not. "I guess that's one way to look at it," I offer, but I can tell from her expression that she understands – that's not the way I'm looking at it.

"Jethro Brackish," the voice calls. Shit. I didn't realize it was that close to being my turn. I hurriedly wash down the rest of my crackers and head for the door, just as Lexi exits the room, her face red and her forehead damp with sweat. She obviously didn't decide to show them survival skills.

I take a deep breath as I enter the room. _Okay, think._ I ignore the trainer, instead heading for the survival stations. The fishing station, specifically. Not that there are any fish to catch, but I have something else in mind. I sit down among the fishhooks and ropes and get to work.

I avoided the fishing stations during training. I figured I already knew more about fishing than the Gamemakers, anyway. Besides, if the arena is anything like last year's, there may not even be anywhere _to_ fish, let alone anything to catch. But that's not the only thing that fishing supplies can be used for.

The minutes tick by, but soon, I have a net that's been laced with dozens of fishhooks, ready to bury themselves in the skin of any unfortunate tribute who happens across it. I'm running out of time, I know, so I quickly fling the whole contraption at one of the dummies, then grab the nearest blade I can find and run it through.

A buzzer sounds, and I glance up at the Gamemakers. They don't look terribly impressed. I turn and head for the door. Maybe Mel's right, anyway. Maybe the numbers don't actually matter. What actually matters is what we're going to do once we're in the arena. And once the Games begin, hopefully I'll have more than fifteen minutes to set up a better trap.

Not that there's likely to be much rope in the arena. Or much of anything, except what we're able to find. There were weapons last year, provided by the Gamemakers at the start of the Games, and some of the tributes occasionally received packages of food, but that was it. There isn't likely to be a pile of rope and fishhooks lying around. So the idea of letting us practice with supplies that aren't actually going to be in the arena … it's a bit odd, now that I think about it.

But I don't have much time to think about it. I nod at the next tribute – the girl from Five – as her name is called. I quickly shoot Mel a thumbs-up sign, then head back to my own room, where June is waiting. "How'd it go?"

I shrug. "So-so. I don't think I'm going to get a ten or anything, but at least they know I know how to do _something_." Sure, that 'something' is making a fishing net, but I don't have to tell _her_ that – not with Lexi here, too. I head for the table, where there's already a pile of food waiting for us. "So, interviews tonight. Any advice?"

June smirks. "Plenty, but none you're likely to take. Think about what you're going to say. Play along." She throws a pointed glance at Lexi. "Don't say anything stupid."

That catches my attention. Of the two of us, I would think she'd be more worried about _me_ saying something stupid. Lexi's been pretty quiet around the two of us. Is there something in particular that June _doesn't_ want her to say?

I turn my attention back to my lunch. Whatever it is, it's not my problem. _She's_ not my problem. Once we're in the arena, we probably won't see each other again. And if we do, we might have to kill each other. So if she slips up and says something stupid during her interview … well, all the better for me.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

To be honest, I thought this would be a lot harder. Thought I would be nervous for my private session. Worried about what sort of score I'm going to get. But Ada's in there right now, taking her turn, and I'm still not nervous.

It's not that I don't care. Not really. I still _want_ to score well. All of us do, I suppose. But not everyone is going to get a ten, or even an eight or a nine. There were only a handful of high scores last year – and none above a ten, even though they said the tributes were going to be graded on a scale from one to twelve. Apparently, none of them really lived up to the Gamemakers' expectations for a top tribute.

And, if I'm being honest, I know I'm not going to. None of us are – at least, none of the others in our group. Phoebe, Darrin, Bentley, and I abandoned our labeled chairs in favor of a position near the snack table, and none of them seem particularly concerned, either. We'll just go in and do our best. It's not as if these scores really have any sort of impact on the Games.

Or, at least, they certainly didn't seem to last year. One of the tributes who scored a ten made it to the final three … but the other was one of the first to die. If anything, getting a higher score made him a target for the other tributes – at least to a certain extent. But even if he hadn't scored high, the other tributes knew he was a rebel soldier. Even if he'd gotten a one, like the boy from Four, the others would never have been fooled into thinking he wasn't a threat.

Just like this year. There are tributes who are obviously a threat. The other large group in the arena – a group that now has five tributes – is obviously one to watch out for. And us … is the size of our group going to convince people that we're a threat, even though most of us are younger? Maybe. Maybe that will be enough to ensure that we're left alone for a while.

Or maybe not. There's no way of knowing. And no point in worrying about it now. Not yet. There's nothing I can do now – nothing except go in there and try my best because … well, because why not? What do I have to lose?

The door opens, and Ada offers me a high five on her way out. I slap her hand, smiling as I head for the door even before they call my name.

The Gamemakers already look a bit distracted. A bit bored. I can't really blame them for that. At least _I'll_ be done after this session. They're not even halfway finished. Then again, this whole thing was their idea in the first place, so I can't really feel too sorry for them. They're the reason I'm here – these Capitolites. Maybe not _these_ ones specifically, but the Capitol in general.

So I avoid their gaze as I choose a weapon – a small dagger. Not something I've practiced with a _lot_ over the last few days, but it seemed like a better idea than trying to show off the survival skills I've picked up. That's not what they really want to see. They want to see us fight.

So that's what they'll get. The trainer chooses an identical dagger and takes a step towards me, waiting for me to make the first move. I charge – a little uneasily, to be honest. I just hope it isn't too obvious that I have no idea what I'm doing.

The trainer easily dodges my first swing, then takes a swipe at me. I dodge. Then dodge again. Back and forth we go, neither of us actually hitting the other – or even really coming close. Every time the trainer takes a step towards me, I lunge out of his reach. I know I should get closer. I should attack. But every time the thought crosses my mind, he swings his blade again, and even though I know he'd be careful not to actually _hurt_ me before the Games, getting any closer goes against every instinct I have.

And maybe that's a good thing. Charging into a fight against an opponent who's clearly more skilled than me – that's something that could get me killed very quickly in the arena. In fact, last year, the tributes who died first were the ones who were eager to rush into the fighting. Well, them and the guy who stepped off his pedestal early and got blown up. I'm not about to make the same mistake.

Fifteen minutes are over before I even realize it, and the buzzer sounds. I don't bother glancing up at the Gamemakers as I turn to leave the room. The door opens, and I pause to wish Phoebe, Darrin, and Bentley good luck before Ada and I head back to our room.

I didn't really expect her to wait for me. I mean, sure, it was only fifteen minutes. But those were fifteen minutes she could have spent getting ready for her interview. And she chose to wait for me to finish with my session instead. I guess she really _does_ want to work with me, after all.

Maybe that shouldn't really be a surprise by now. But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been wondering. Wondering if she was really planning to stick with our group of younger tributes, or if she'd take off and leave us once we're actually in the arena. And she still might. Hell, _I_ still might if it seems like sticking with the group isn't a good idea anymore. But it still feels good to know that – for now, at least – we're on the same side.

* * *

 **Elinor Siesto, 18  
** **District Six**

It's a lot harder to focus now that Jae isn't with me. To be honest, I hadn't really expected that. I'm used to being alone. To working alone. So it's a bit surprising how quickly – and how easily – I've gotten used to having him there. To being able to turn around and ask for his opinion, find out what he thinks we should do next.

But there is no 'we.' Or, at least, there won't be once we're in the arena. So I might as well get used to that – get used to the idea of working alone again. Because eventually, I'll be alone. I'll have to be, if I want to survive. Eventually, Jae will have to die.

But for now, we make a good pair – and the better both of us do now, the more likely it is to help us later on. I take a deep breath as I enter the room, immediately choosing a handful throwing knives from a pile near the door. I make my way towards one of the dummies, and throw. The knife lodges itself in the dummy's chest with a satisfying _thunk_ , but, to be fair, I was only standing a few feet away. I back up a little, then throw again. Then a little more.

The third knife bounces harmlessly off the dummy, and the fourth goes a bit wide, slicing across its arm but doing no real damage. I finger the two knives I have left in my hands, then throw one more, which slams handle-first into the dummy's head. Instead of throwing the last one, though, I charge at the trainer.

Despite my best efforts to catch him off-guard, however, he's ready for me. Even before I can reach him, he has a knife of his own in his hands, and easily dodges my first blow. His knife comes slicing through the air, and I barely manage to leap out of the way in time. I take a step back, trying to focus. _Think._

But there is no time to think. There's only time to act. Back and forth. Swing. Dodge. Duck. Strike. Back and forth, until both of us are sweating and breathing hard. Finally, the buzzer rings, and I venture a glance up at the Gamemakers. A few of them are smiling – but are they impressed or amused? I'm not sure. But I know I've done my best.

I pass Jae on my way out, and he gives me a nod. I nod back, glancing at the clock as the door closes behind him. Fifteen minutes. I can wait for him for fifteen minutes. What else am I going to do in that time? Go back to our room and socialize with Maia? No thank you.

Instead, I take my seat again, watching the other tributes. Most of them are quiet – most of the remaining ones, at least. The boy from Three was a bit more chatty, but he went back to his room after his session. If Jae's session hadn't been next, I might have, too. No one really wants to stay here much longer than they have to.

Then again, none of us really want to be here at all. Well, _almost_ none of us. There were a few volunteers, but even they are probably regretting that decision by now. I know I would be.

But I didn't have that choice. Most of us didn't. We didn't have any say in whether or not we're here – only in what we do now that we are. Whether we're actually going to fight – that's our choice. How hard we'll work now that our lives are on the line – that's our choice. And once we're in the arena tomorrow, we'll find out just who is actually up to the task.

The door opens again, and Jae emerges as the girl from Seven is called. He's barely sweating. What did he decide to show them? Maybe he made a trap or something. I guess he wouldn't have worked up much of a sweat doing that. But is that really what they want to see? A few quickly-made traps? Sure, it's useful, but it's certainly not as impressive as actually fighting.

But that's not my problem. If he gets a lower score, that just makes me seem like the more impressive of the pair of us. That's a good thing.

Jae nods to me, and we head back to our room. "Thanks for waiting," he says once we're in the elevator. Maybe he felt like he needed to say _something_. Maybe that seemed like a safer topic than asking what I showed the Gamemakers.

"You're welcome." Better not to ask him, either. The sessions are private for a reason. If he's hiding something, he's obviously not going to tell me. And if I start to seem too curious, he might ask what _I_ did.

Not that there's really any point in keeping it a secret, I suppose. It's not as if he _hadn't_ known I was practicing at the knife station. And it's not as if I don't know what _he's_ been doing. We've been going to stations together for the past three days. If he has some sort of hidden talent, he's been hiding it pretty well.

I shake the thought from my head. What would he be hiding? It's not as if he fought during the war or anything. He hasn't exactly been quiet about the fact that he and his father work at one of the train stations. It's not as if he could have picked up too many useful skills there. Not as if he knows more about how to survive – or how to kill – than the rest of us.

No. No, I'm just being paranoid. The elevator door opens, and the two of us head back to our room to face Maia, who, I have no doubt, will already be gushing about the interviews, already wanting to help us plan for tonight. And maybe I should be grateful for that. But she's worried about planning clothes, makeup, hairdos. We're worried about fighting for our lives.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I can't help thinking that this will be a lot harder once we're actually fighting for our lives. Right now, this is almost fun. Almost as if it really _is_ a game. The trainer and I have been swinging our spears back and forth for almost ten minutes now. I'm sure he's going easy on me, because I've actually managed to get a couple hits in. Is he trying to make me look good? Maybe. Maybe he's been trying to make _everyone_ look good.

That makes sense, I suppose. They want a good game. They want to believe that we're ready. Or, at the very least, they want _us_ to believe that we're ready. Maybe they're hoping that, if they act like we're going to know what we're doing, there will be more of us who are actually willing to seek out a fight.

But we can't afford to fall into that trap. Just because we've had a few days of training doesn't mean we're ready to take on everyone else in the arena. I'm glad we've had _some_ training, of course, but it's no substitute for real experience. It's not enough to make me want to charge into a fight right away.

Last year, after all, it was the tributes who charged into the fighting immediately who ended up dying quickly. Most of them, anyways. Four tributes died almost immediately after the Games started – although, to be fair, one of them simply blew up when he stepped off his pedestal early. But I have no intention of making the same mistake, of dying that quickly.

Of course, I have no _intention_ of dying at all. None of us do. But that doesn't change the fact that twenty-three of us _are_ going to die, no matter how much we might fight to stay alive. Only one of us is coming out of the arena alive. And if I want it to be me, I'll have to be willing to fight this hard when my life actually _is_ on the line.

I swing again, barely missing the trainer. The blades have been dulled, so it's not as if I would really have hurt him, but it feels good to have come close. Almost makes me feel like I would stand a chance in a real fight. I'm smiling as the buzzer sounds. The trainer smiles back, and I turn and head for the door.

I'm still smiling as I pass Atleigh, who's on his way into his own session. Jim and Mantle are still waiting for their turns. "Want me to wait for you?" I ask.

Jim shakes his head. "Nah. We're big boys – we can make it back on our own."

I roll my eyes. It's not as if I was worried about their _safety._ I just thought they might want some company, since the number of tributes in the room is steadily dwindling. But if they're all right by themselves, I might as well head back to my room and try to get ready for tonight.

Eve is waiting for me when I get back. "Good session?"

I shrug. "About as good as it could be."

"You feel ready for tonight?"

"More ready than I feel for tomorrow," I admit. There's no point in lying. I'm not ready for tonight. And I'm not ready for tomorrow. But if it's a matter of being worried about a quick interview or a fight to the death, there's not really a discussion to be had there. I'm more worried about the Games. All of us are. Or, at least, I would think so.

"I'd be more worried if you _did_ feel ready," Eve offers as I take a seat at the table and help myself to some of the pie that's waiting for us.

I shake my head. "Why?"

"Because if you really felt prepared, you might not think things through. You might rush into something that you're not really ready for."

I shake my head. "But then isn't the opposite true, too – that if we're too hesitant, we might miss out on an opportunity because we don't feel like we're ready?"

Eve nods. "It's a balance – and a delicate one, at that. What are your plans for the start of the Games?"

"Jim and Mantle want to make sure we got some weapons at the start."

"And you?"

I shrug. "That makes sense. And not too many people tried to get weapons last year. But this year…"

"This year they know what's coming," Eve finishes. "Everyone will have a plan. And you might have to adjust your own based on what everyone else does. If it looks too dangerous – if there are too many people rushing in to get weapons – then get out of there."

"But Jim and Mantle—"

"Will do the same, if they're smart. No point in risking your life for a weapon you'll be able to come back and get later."

She's got a point. Last year, most of the tributes had a chance to come back and find weapons after the other tributes had left. There were plenty of weapons – even towards the end of the Games.

But we can't count on any of that being the same this year. Last year, the largest group was a group of three – and they didn't stay together very long. What if one of the groups this year decides that the center of the arena – assuming that's where the weapons still are – is a good place to _stay_? What if it's not safe to go back and get weapons later?

Or maybe … maybe _we_ should stay. If no one else stays near the weapons at the start of the Games, maybe we should. Maybe – if everybody else leaves – we should put ourselves in a position to control who has access to the weapons. But first I'll have to talk to Jim and Mantle.

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

It's getting a lot harder to ignore the dwindling number of tributes. By the time Hannah's name is called, there are only five of us left in the room. The pair from Twelve are chatting quietly in one corner. The boy from Eleven is sitting by himself. And Phoebe and I have made our way over to the snack table. It's been almost five hours since we came down here. It must be past lunchtime by now.

I suppose I'd better get used to that – being hungry, that is. I've been snacking all morning because … well, why not? Might as well eat as much as possible while I still can, right? Once we're in the arena, there's no telling when – or what – the next meal might be. And whatever we manage to find, we'll have to share among the five of us.

Maybe that's why the tributes last year decided to stick with smaller groups. But whatever the disadvantages of having more of us might be, there are benefits, too. More people looking for food means that there'll be a better chance of us finding something. More us of to keep watch during the night means more sleep for the rest of us, and a smaller chance of anyone being able to sneak up on us. And more of us to fight off an attack means we'll be a less tempting target. The only people likely to think it's worth it to attack us are going to be the _other_ larger group.

And that, of course, means they're the ones we'll have to watch out for. The group that includes two of the tributes still in the room with us – the pair from Twelve. But that group … that also includes Hannah. My district partner. Would they really attack us? Would _she_ really try to kill us? To kill me?

Maybe. I don't think she has anything in particular _against_ me, but she doesn't exactly like me, either. Or maybe … maybe the bigger question isn't whether or not she would try to kill me. It's what _I_ would do if her group attacked mine. Would I try to kill them? To kill _her_?

Even the thought of it makes my stomach turn. I don't _want_ to kill anyone. If I'd been eager for a fight, I wouldn't have teamed up with twelve, thirteen, and fourteen year olds. Maybe that will be enough to keep her group from attacking ours. Maybe she won't want to kill little kids.

I ruffle Phoebe's hair as the door opens again. "Darrin Tunell," the voice calls, and I flash Phoebe a wink as I head for the door. Hannah shakes her head as she passes me, as if she's already warning me not to get too attached. Not to get too close to Phoebe. To Bentley. To Apollo and Ada. Because if I want to survive, they're going to have to die.

I take a deep breath as the door closes behind me. I can't start thinking about that. Not now. I have to focus. I quickly choose a spear and hurl it at a dummy. The first time, it bounces harmlessly off, but the second time, I hit my mark. And the third. After spearing the dummy a few more times, I turn to the trainer, who's already holding an identical spear. I force a smile. "Let's do this."

He waits for me to charge first, easily sidestepping the first blow. He catches the second with his own weapon, then strikes back – hard. I duck. Dodge. Anything I can do to stay ahead of his strokes. _Focus_. But I can't. Every time I strike, I keep picturing one of the other tributes in his place. Hannah. Ada. Phoebe. Someone younger and smaller than me.

Someone smaller. I dodge the trainer's next blow, then dive for his legs. He wasn't expecting that, and barely manages to step out of the way in time. My arms miss, but my spear connects with the back of his legs, and he topples over. I take a few steps back, grinning as he gets to his feet. "Not bad, huh?"

He smiles a little. Not quite what I was expecting, but I suppose he can afford to be a good sport. He's not the one whose life will be on the line tomorrow. I'll be in the arena, while he'll still be safely here in the Capitol. He holds out his hand, still smiling, and I shake it.

Even as I do, though, he gives a yank, and his own spear sweeps my legs out from under me. I crash to the floor, my own spear clattering down beside me. "That's cheating," I mutter as I struggle to my feet and scoop up the spear again.

The trainer shakes his head. "Yes, it is. But cheating's allowed in the Games – don't forget that. You get an opponent on the ground, you make sure you finish him off." He claps me on the shoulder as the bell rings. "You remember that, you hear?"

I nod, then turn and head for the door, remembering at the last second to put the spear back in place. The door opens, and Phoebe's name is called. I flash her a thumbs up as she heads into the room. The door closes behind her, and I glance around the room. Only four of us left. I take my place back by the snack table and choose another muffin. After five hours, I might as well wait fifteen more minutes for her to be done with her session.

I shake my head as I take a seat. I wonder what Phoebe decided to show them. We didn't talk about it much as a group. Figured it wasn't all that important. What I decided to show them certainly wasn't all that impressive. And maybe it's better if we _don't_ score high. If people _don't_ think we're a threat, then maybe they won't come after us.

Maybe. But eventually, they'll come after everyone. Eventually, trying to convince the others we're not a threat won't protect us any more than strength in numbers will. Eventually, everyone's a target. And eventually, everyone's a threat.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

Working with these four is going to make it a lot harder to convince people I'm not a threat. But at least I can start with the Gamemakers. I head for the shelter-building station immediately and get to work, pretending not to notice the trainer who's standing by, ready to spar. I could fight. Try to show off what little I've been able to pick up over the last three days. But survival skills were easier to pick up. They came more naturally.

Sure, they probably won't earn me as high a score, but I'm okay with that. I'm twelve. It would probably seem a bit odd if I _did_ score high. That might make people suspicious. Might make them notice me. And that's the last thing I want to do. I don't want their attention.

So I settle in with the shelter-building supplies, and, after ten minutes or so, I have a passable shelter. Nothing that will hold up under a bad storm, maybe, but something to keep me warm and dry on a chilly night. Once that's done, I sort a few berries and bugs – mostly to pass the time until the buzzer rings. I head out of the room without a glance back at the Gamemakers.

Darrin is waiting for me when the door opens. He wraps an arm around my shoulder as the pair of us head for the elevator. "How'd it go?"

I shrug. "Not bad. You?"

"Not bad, I guess. I'd imagine they're getting pretty bored by now."

He's probably right. But they only have three more tributes to go – Mantle and then the pair from Twelve. Still, I wouldn't want their job. They've spent more than five hours so far watching tributes try to demonstrate our skills. More than five hours trying to decide which of us have a chance, and which are lost causes.

That's not the only reason, of course – not the only reason I wouldn't want their job. I don't think I could take it. Don't think I could handle watching twenty-four kids and knowing – _knowing_ – that twenty-three of us are going to be dead soon.

Soon. Not just _soon_. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it all starts. The fighting. The killing. Tomorrow, some of us will be dead. _I_ could be dead. I lean in a little closer to Darrin as the elevator starts to climb. He squeezes my shoulder gently. "Hey. It's okay. I'm sure you did fine."

I manage a nod. That's not what I'm worried about. I'm not worried about my score. I'm not worried about the interviews. None of that compares to what's going to happen during the Games. With the possibility that I could be dead tomorrow hanging over my head, how could I be worried about anything else? How could anything else hope to scare me?

The elevator stops, and Darrin gives me a little wave. "See you later, unless…" He holds out a hand, stopping the door from closing. "Unless you'd like to join me."

I take a step towards him. "Join you?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. Thought we might get the whole group together to watch the scores. You, me, Bentley, Ada, Apollo – maybe meet up in District Five's room, since both of them are with us."

 _With us._ I step out of the elevator. "Are we allowed to do that?"

Darrin chuckles. "Why not? Where's the harm? We'll just be watching the screen together."

Watching while I get an embarrassingly low score. If I'd known that I'd have to watch the scores together with the others, then … what? Would I have tried harder? Would I have wanted to get a higher score? Or would I have done the exact same thing? "Sounds great," I lie.

Darrin smiles. "Great. I'll go let Athena know where I'll be. Meet you back here."

"See you then." I suppose I should tell Lucius where I'm going, but he probably wouldn't even notice if I disappeared entirely – not until he couldn't find me for the Games or something.

For a moment, I seriously consider it – trying to sneak away. But where would I go? Even if I could somehow make it out of the building, everyone in the Capitol knows our faces now. There's no way I'd be able to hide. Nowhere I'd be able to run. And if – no, _when_ – they caught me, then they'd make _sure_ I died in the Games.

My hands are shaking as Darrin emerges from his room. "Good to go," he nods, either not noticing that I'm trembling or choosing not to comment on it for my sake. "Let's go get the others."

The others. At least I won't be alone – now or in the arena. Darrin escorts me back towards the elevator and presses the button for the seventh floor. Bentley seems rather relieved by our offer to watch the scores together. Maybe he wants to get away from his escort. I can't really blame him for that. Sure, Lucius has been ignoring me, but at least _my_ escort wasn't a Capitol general during the war.

Ada and Apollo's escort, on the other hand, greets us with a smile. "Come in, come in," he offers with a smile as soon as he sees us. "Ada and Apollo thought you might be stopping by."

Bentley hesitates. "We don't want to be any trouble, but—"

"Oh, no – no trouble at all." He waves us in. "I'm Isaac. And you must be Bentley, and Darrin, and Phoebe. Ada and Apollo have told me _all_ about you."

All about us. I try to smile. They don't _know_ all about us. We've barely known each other for two days. Still, being part of a group – even if I don't dare fully trust them – is at least somewhat comforting. And maybe I should be grateful for that.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

Maybe I should be glad this is a lot harder than it was during training. That means the trainer isn't going easy on me. He isn't holding back. I've gotta admit, that's pretty impressive – the fact that he's managed to keep this up after nearly six hours. Twenty-four tributes, most of whom probably wanted to show off their fighting skills. He must be tired of this by now.

Still, it takes all my effort to dodge his dagger as he swings again. I catch the next blow on my own blade before taking a step back. He charges, and I dodge, managing to take a swing at him. But he steps away quickly enough to avoid the blow, and my momentum carries me forward. He simply steps away and lets me topple to the ground.

Immediately, I get to my feet again. I can't afford to look weak. Can't afford to look hesitant, even though the truth is I'd much rather be poking around the survival stations right now. But at least Z seems to be enjoying things. _Kick him,_ he suggests for the third time as I get to my feet. As if I've had the chance. I haven't been able to get close enough to do anything but dodge the trainer's dagger.

 _Duck_ , Z insists as the trainer's next blow comes, and I'm too tired to ignore him anymore. Maybe … maybe I shouldn't try. I clench my teeth and duck beneath the trainer's blow. _Left_ , Z suggests, and I dodge to the left. Right. Left. Kick. Duck. I stop thinking about what my next move is going to be and silently let Z take the lead. By the time the buzzer rings, I still haven't won, but at least I've managed to hit the trainer a few times.

Ivone is still waiting as I leave the room. She doesn't bother asking what I showed them. And I don't ask her. I'm sure she showed them some sort of weapons skills. If not for our new allies, I might have thought about demonstrating survival skills, instead – trying not to score too high. Trying not to make a target of myself.

But everything's different now that we're part of a larger group. As the most recent additions, the burden is on us to prove that we're up to the task. That accepting us wasn't a mistake. That we deserve a place in their group. Their pack.

A pack. That's almost what it's like. A pack of dogs, or wolves, or some other sort of animal. Grant rolls his eyes as Ivone and I arrive together. "You two planning the wedding yet?"

I can't help glaring at him. Sure, we've been spending a lot of time together over the last few days, but that doesn't mean anything. Besides, I'm—

But before I can say anything, Ivone beats me to it. "Sorry, he's not really my type. Besides, I got a gal waiting at home, and he probably does, too."

I shake my head. "Not a gal, no. You're not really my type, either."

Ivone smirks. "Looks like you couldn't have been farther off, Grant."

Grant shakes his head. "Won't stop you from dying together."

I head for the table, resisting the urge – and Z's suggestion – that I punch him in the face. I have no intention of dying – with or without anyone else. He's right about one thing, though. I can't afford to get attached, or that's exactly what I'll end up doing. A couple tributes last year did, after all – got killed trying to help the people they were working with. I can't afford to make the same mistake.

After helping ourselves to lunch, Ivone and I settle down in front of the screen. Last year, the scores were announced early in the afternoon. That doesn't seem to give the Gamemakers much time to talk it over, but maybe there's not much to talk about.

"So what do you think you got?" Ivone asks after a moment of awkward silence.

I glance up. "Huh?"

"What score do you think you got? I mean, I'm not gonna ask what you did, but we'll find out in a little while anyway how well we did. So what do you think? Got a guess?"

I shake my head, trying to think back to last year. What was a good score? What was average? Did I do well enough to score better than average? I hope so – especially if we want to stay part of our group. But I also don't want to sound too cocky. Don't want to overestimate myself and end up disappointed. "Maybe a six or so?" I offer, trying to sound casual. Trying to sound optimistic. Right now, a six doesn't sound so bad. "What about you?"

She shrugs. "Oh, somewhere around a six, I suppose. Probably not as good as the rest of our group."

She has a point. Whatever our scores are, are they really going to measure up to someone who's actually been training? How well are we really going to compare with two tributes who actually _volunteered_ to be here? Volunteers didn't seem to score all that well last year, I suppose, but the kid who eventually won – he was a volunteer. He wanted to be here. As hard as I try, I can't imagine that.

 _But_ I _can._ Z is enjoying this. Maybe Z wouldn't have volunteered for this, but now that we're here, he seems to be having fun. He was certainly enjoying himself during our private session. Maybe the Gamemakers noticed. Maybe that'll be enough to earn me a higher score. I shake my head as Ivone and I settle into a couch across from the screen. I guess I'll find out soon enough.


	16. A Lot Smarter

**A Lot Smarter**

" _Got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter."_

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

I'm still not entirely sure whether Ra is trying to sound smart, or whether he just doesn't have practice being around people. He's spent the last five minutes trying to explain why training scores really don't matter. How the Gamemakers are just using them to create drama. How none of us really deserve that high a score, but _someone_ has to appear to score better than the others. Someone has to _seem_ noticeable, seem important, even if they really aren't.

I scoot a little closer to Julian on the couch. After what he's told me about how Titus has been ignoring him, I invited him to join us to watch the training scores. Well, to listen to them, I suppose. Anyway, it's nice to have some company. Some more _normal_ company.

Not that Maverick's been bad. He's just not very talkative. And Gloria – well, she's a bit _too_ talkative if you ask me, but at least she's pleasant. And at least she's not trying to tell us that none of this matters. On the contrary, _everything_ seems to matter to her. Reality … well, reality is probably somewhere in between.

And maybe Ra's right. Maybe the scores don't really matter. They didn't seem to matter much last year. Maverick was quick to remind me that he only scored a four, and he still won. He's probably trying to make Julian and me feel better, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. Neither of us is likely to score well.

Not that I didn't try, of course. I gave it my best shot. Didn't really have any reason not to. Even if they decide to give me a high score – which I doubt – no one is going to be convinced that I'm really a threat. They're not stupid. And Julian … I'm not sure exactly what he decided to show them, but, whatever it is, it's not likely to make up for his obvious disadvantage. When it comes down to it, it's undeniably useful to be able to _see_ the person you're fighting.

So he probably didn't fight. Probably decided to go with some sort of survival skills – which will probably get him a lower score. But that's okay – or, at least, that's what I keep telling him. What I keep trying to tell _myself._ Some of us have to score low. And some of us have to score high. Ra's right about the Gamemakers wanting a sense of drama. But does he have to be so insistent about the fact that he's right?

Even _Gloria_ seems to be getting annoyed, and brings over a plate of snacks that finally silences Ra, who returns to watching us curiously. I'm not sure if that's better or worse, but at least it's quieter. Finally, a sharp gasp from Gloria breaks the silence. "Look! It's starting!"

Sure enough, the screen is lighting up, revealing the face of the Hunger Games' host, the president's daughter, Noelle. She's beaming brightly as lights flash in the background. "Welcome, welcome! Thank you for joining us this afternoon! All across Panem, people have been waiting anxiously for the last three days. Waiting for any hint of how this year's Games will proceed, how this year's tributes will compare to last year's." She leans forward a little. "Well, Panem, the wait is over. Would you like to hear how these twenty-four tributes have been doing?"

A thunderous applause erupts from the crowd. Noelle waits for the cheers to die down before she continues. "Of course, we can't give you too many details. Don't want to give away exactly what might be in store – which weapons might be favored by which tributes, early clues at who might be working together. But this morning, all twenty-four tributes were asked to demonstrate their skills to the Gamemakers, who awarded each of them a score between one and twelve."

She pauses for another round of cheering. "Get on with it," Julian mutters, and I nod.

But, even as I do, my own face flashes on the screen. "First, from District One, we have Charlotte Jacquard," Noelle announces, "with a score of five."

Julian can't help a smile. Gloria pats me on the shoulder. Maverick elbows me playfully. "Better than me," he points out.

And that's true. But I'm also four years older than he was. Still, a five – that's average. Certainly not _bad_. Not that I have much else to compare it to, until—

"And Ra Schintozo, with a score of eight."

Another round of congratulations – this time for Ra. And, as annoying as he's been, I can't help feeling glad that he scored well. His whole group probably did – which will only serve to cement them as one of the more dangerous groups in the arena. But it's not as if we didn't know that, anyway. Not as if this is really news.

But, news or not, that's not going to stop Gloria from gushing. "Oh, this is just marvellous. To see District One doing so well again this year – it's fantastic. It just warms my heart. Maverick, aren't you just so proud?"

Maverick nods silently for a moment, then opens his mouth. Then closes it again, as if trying to decide whether or not to say what's on his mind. Maybe he's trying to find the right words. Or maybe he's debating whether he should say it in front of both of us. "What is it, dear?" Gloria asks encouragingly.

Maverick turns to Ra. "Careful. Be … be careful. Your group – probably score high, too. Everyone will know … you're a threat."

Ra shrugs. "Good."

"And bad," Maverick offers quietly. But his warning seems to have fallen on deaf ears. I turn back to the screen as a picture of Julian's district partner appears. "From District Two, we have Jayda Greggory, with a score of nine."

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

You didn't have to be particularly smart to figure out Jayda was going to score well, I suppose. She's been training, after all. Preparing for this for almost a whole year. She wants to be here. She has the practice. I'd have been more surprised if she _hadn't_ gotten a high score.

Ra, on the other hand, doesn't sound particularly impressed. "What was the highest score last year?"

"Ten," Gloria offers. "The girl from Two and the boy from Seven both got tens last year."

"Wonder if anyone will this year," Ra muses. And maybe someone will. Maybe they won't. Hell, they said they were scoring us on a scale of one to twelve. No one got an eleven or a twelve last year. Maybe they just aren't giving out higher scores this year. Maybe that's good. Maybe that means they won't give out a one, either.

Because if anyone's going to get a one, let's be honest, it's probably going to be me. Sure, I did my best. I went in there, tied quite a few knots – ended up making a pretty impressive rope ladder. At least, that's what it was trying to be. But that's not exactly going to compare to tributes who went in swinging.

"Julian Masters, with a score of two," the voice calls. Yeah, that sounds about right. About the right score for a blind kid in a fight to the death. Can't say I'm that surprised.

And, from the sound of it, neither is Charlotte. "Hey, that's not bad," she offers. "At least it's not a one."

She's trying to be helpful. Trying to be optimistic. Maybe it's finally sinking in – the fact that she chose to ally with a blind boy who has no real fighting skills. I shrug. "Not too late to find someone else, you know."

But it is – and we both know it. No one else is going to want to team up with either of us this soon before the Games. If we leave each other now, we're on our own. And I don't want to be on my own.

Neither does Charlotte. "Sorry, you're stuck with me." She gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Want another piece of pie?"

I can't help a smile as she hands me a plate. "Why not?" Might as well eat while we can. Tomorrow, we'll be in the arena, scrounging and fighting for whatever food we can find. Might as well go into the Games with full stomachs.

And if nothing else, at least we've had that. We've had a few days of plenty, which is more than most folks in the districts can say. How many of them would be willing to risk their lives for a chance at a decent meal?

Not as many as one might think, I suppose. Otherwise, the Games would be full of starving children, volunteering like Maverick did – for a chance at a better life. But they aren't. There were only a handful of volunteers, just as there were last year. For most people, it simply doesn't seem worth it. The odds are too small.

But not for me. Because it was never about the odds. And it's not about the scores, either – certainly not about the measly two I managed to scrape out. Clarence would have scored better than me, it's true. He would probably last longer in the Games than I will. But he would never have made it out. That's all this is about. All this was ever about. He's safe. Anything else is secondary.

Secondary, but not completely irrelevant. Clarence is safe, but I don't want to die, either. And I don't want Charlotte to die. But at least one of those things is going to happen. Probably both of them. Maybe all that's left is to give our deaths some sort of purpose. To make sure they mean something.

But what? During the war, at least the rebels could say that they were dying for a cause. For an ideal. But if we die in the Games, what are we dying for? Entertainment – that's all. The Capitol's amusement. Punishment for the rebellion. That's all our deaths are – a political point.

That's not good enough. I swallow another piece of pie, my mind wandering as the host rattles off number after number. Numbers – that's all we are to them. Numbers and faces on a screen. Our whole lives summed up into one digit that signals our worth in the Games. That's all I am to them – a lousy little two.

But that's not all I am. Not all I am to Clarence, to my parents … and maybe not even all I am to Charlotte. She certainly didn't choose me as a partner because she thought I'd get a high score, or even because she thought I'd be able to help her much. But she must have seen something else in me. Something valuable.

But what? Is she simply hoping that the other tributes will be reluctant to attack her if she's working with a blind kid? Or does she think that maybe I'll make a good target – a good distraction while she gets herself to safety? Maybe. But I'd like to believe it's something more than that. That, despite the fact that we've only known each other for a few days, she wants my help because she sees me as a person, not just _that blind kid._

That's what I want to think. What I want to believe. Whether or not it's true … well, I guess I'll find out soon enough.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

"Thought they'd be a bit smarter than that," Leopold mumbles as Jayda's face fades from the screen. "If _she_ only got a nine, I can't wait to see how low you two scored."

Rick smirks. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Leo. I'd love to see how well _you'd_ score."

I can't help but smile at that. He's got a point. _We're_ the only ones who really have a right to complain. The twenty-four of us who are going to be in the arena tomorrow. And maybe Rick's starting to realize it, too. He's a lot tenser than he seemed earlier today. Maybe he's just nervous. Anxious to see whether Rick is right about us scoring low.

Or maybe … maybe it's finally starting to sink in – the fact that the Games start tomorrow, and his only ally is a twelve-year-old. Maybe it didn't seem like such a big deal during training, when all he was looking for was some company. But now, who he chose as that company matters.

Just as it matters that I decided to team up with Lexi. But, as far as I'm concerned, we seem like a better pair. Certainly a more equal pair. We're even the same age. We visited most of the same stations during training. We know each other's abilities – at least, as much as we could be expected to after only a few days. We'll work well together.

At least, I hope we will, because she's the only partner I've got. I can't stop my fingers from drumming on the side of the couch as the boy from Two disappears from the screen. He only scored a two. I hope I can do better than that, at least. If I can't even score better than a blind kid…

"From District Three, Dina Brookfield, with a score of four." I breathe a sigh of relief as my name appears. A four – that's not bad. Almost as good as the girl from One, and she's a few years older than me. And the boy last year – the boy who won – he scored a four, too. Maybe that's good luck.

Rick claps me on the back. "Not bad, Dina. Not bad." I can't help a smile.

"Not exactly good, either," Leopold mutters.

I roll my eyes. _Nothing_ seems to make him happy. "Your tributes didn't do much better last year," I point out. The girl scored a six, sure, but the boy only scored a two.

Leopold shrugs. "Never said they were better. The lot of you are hopeless."

Rick shakes his head. "What are you doing here, then?" He has a point. Why would he volunteer to be an escort in District Three if he thinks we're all hopeless?

Leopold scoffs. "You think District Three was my first choice? Most of us didn't get a say in where we ended up."

 _Most of us._ Before I can ask who _did_ get a choice, Rick's face appears on the screen. "Rick Therald, with a score of six."

Rick lets out a _whoop_ , and I can't help but smile along. Maybe he's a bit annoying, but, for now, at least, I can be happy for him.

For now. But not for long. Once we're in the arena, I can't afford to worry about how well he's doing – or how badly. The only ones I need to worry about are myself and Lexi…

"From District Four, Lexi Concord, with a score of four."

Rick grins. "Well, how about that. You match."

We do. And that's probably for the best. If I'd scored lower, I would certainly have been upset. A bit jealous. Maybe even a little anxious to prove myself once the Games began. I might have done something stupid in the name of proving that I should have scored better. And if I'd scored higher than Lexi, she might have done the same. This … this is better.

"Jethro Brackish, with a score of four."

"Looks like the Gamemakers have a favorite number this year," Leopold chuckles.

Rick shrugs. "I guess they figured it was good enough for last year's Victor."

"That was a fluke," Leopold assures him. "The kid got lucky."

"Something wrong with getting lucky?"

Leopold shakes his head. "Oh, he won fair and square. But I wouldn't try to follow his example if I were you."

Rick starts clapping. "I think that's the first piece of _actual_ advice you've given us. Mind telling us what we _should_ do rather than what we shouldn't?"

"Watch your backs. Both of you."

Rick turns to one side, then the other. "Why? Something back there?"

Leopold snorts. "Yeah, keep joking. You know that kid you teamed up is only interested in how long you'll protect him, right?"

"Maybe I'm only interested in how long he'll protect me."

"Right." Leopold turns to me. "And you – don't get too cozy with Lexi. If she's anything like her father, she's got a few tricks up her sleeve."

"Her father?" Lexi never mentioned anything about her father. Of course, neither have I – it's not exactly a subject that comes up. But, still…

Leopold chuckles. "Oh, so she didn't tell you. Surprise, surprise. Why don't you ask her about it?"

He lets the words hang in the air for a moment. He knows I can't. I can't ask her. Not now. Not the day before the Games. Because if there's a secret she's hiding – if it's something that could break up our little alliance – then I don't want to know. She's the only partner I have. I don't want to go into the Games alone.

But would I rather be in the arena with someone who's lying to me? Does Leopold even know anything, or is he playing games with me? Why would he be trying to help me now? No, more likely he's trying to break up our alliance, trying to ruin our chances. I clench my fists as hard as I can. It's not going to work. But he's right – I'll have to watch my back.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

Watching the scores together was probably a lot smarter than any of us realized at first. I think the others came over mostly because they wanted company, but this is probably better, anyway. This way, none of us have to worry about what the others will think of our scores. We'll already know.

I wish I could say I wasn't concerned about my score. None of the others seem to be. And maybe that makes sense. Most of them are younger – it would be more of a surprise if they managed a high score. And Darrin … well, he doesn't seem to be worried about _anything._ I shake my head, fiddling with the end of my sleeve. How can they be so calm?

On the surface, of course, I know it's silly to worry. There's nothing I can do to change my score now, after all. I did my best during my private session. Maybe I'm not great with a spear, but at least I did _something_. I was tempted to show off some survival skills, instead. Maybe I should have – after three days, I'm certainly more comfortable with building a shelter or lighting a fire than I am with any of the weapons I've practiced with.

But that's not what they wanted. Sure, there were survival supplies there – and maybe even a few tributes who decided to use them – but that's not what they really want to see, either now or during the Games. I just hope I did well enough to earn a decent score.

Apollo huddles a little closer to me as a large number 5 flashes on the screen. Then my picture appears. "From District Five, Ada Lavoisier, with a score of six."

Yes! It's all I can do to keep from laughing. Darrin claps me on the back, and Apollo grins up at me. Bentley and Phoebe offer high fives. Even Isaac is smiling. "One of the highest so far," he points out.

He's right. The boy from One got an eight, and the girl from Two got a nine, but, other than that, none of the tributes have scored particularly high. So a six – yeah, that feels pretty good.

The congratulations die down just in time to hear Apollo's score. "Apollo Lancey, with a score of five." Another round of congratulations – this time for him. I ruffle my district partner's hair a little, and he smiles up at me. If the rest of our group continues to score this well, then…

Then what? The thought hits me like a wave. "Is this really a good thing?"

Darrin raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"High scores – or, at least, higher than most of the other tributes so far. Is that really a good thing for our group?"

Darrin shrugs. "Why not?"

But Apollo's started to put it together. "We're doing almost as well as the other large group. What if that's not a coincidence?"

Bentley shakes his head. "You think they're trying to pit us against each other?"

Isaac can't help a chuckle. "You're in a fight to the death, and you're just catching onto the fact that they're pitting you against each other? That's what the Games _are_."

"I meant—" Bentley starts.

Isaac nods. "I know what you meant. You want to know if the Gamemakers are trying to force your group and the other larger group into a position where you'll _have_ to fight each other. The answer is probably yes. But that doesn't mean you have to make it easy for them. Because no matter what your scores may say, that's a fight that most of you wouldn't walk away from."

My stomach is already churning. "So you're saying we should … what? Give up?"

"No one's saying that," Darrin assures me.

"Of course not," Isaac agrees. "I'm just saying what you already know – that you shouldn't rush into a fight you probably won't win. But that doesn't mean there aren't other ways to fight them."

Bentley shifts a little in his seat. "We're listening."

Isaac leans forward a little. "The fact that you're all here – together – says something, because I guarantee you the other group isn't. They're all sitting in their separate rooms, fretting about whether their partners are going to do better or worse than them. Worried that if they score too low, the others might discard them – or that if they score too high, the others might target them. They have some strong fighters, I'm sure, but that's also their weakness. They'll be looking over their shoulders even within their own group."

I nod a little. That makes sense. "But how does that help us?"

"Patience will help you. Don't rush into a fight right away. Wait for it. Wait for the tension to grow first. Because as much as it might affect the five of you, it'll hit them harder. They'll be torn apart first – mark my words."

Darrin shakes his head. "Maybe. But I'm sure they know that, too – or, at least, Hannah does. Doesn't that mean they'll just come after us as soon as they can?"

"As soon as they can," Isaac agress. "So it's your job to make sure that's not soon. Get away from them as fast as you can at the start of the Games, and stay away – until they tear each other apart."

The others are nodding along. Darrin and Bentley and Apollo. Even Phoebe, who's been silent most of the night. Maybe they're agreeing with Isaac's idea – that we should get away from the other group, from the more dangerous tributes. Or maybe the idea of the other group turning on each other – taking care of our problem for us – is more appealing than the idea of facing them in a fair fight. I just hope that we don't turn on each other first.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

Sticking with just each other for partners is starting to seem like a much smarter idea now. No matter how we score – how well or how badly – the only other person I really have to worry about right now is Elinor. And the only other score she has to worry about is mine.

Her face flashes on the screen first. "From District Six, Elinor Siesto, with a score of seven."

Maia whistles a little. "Nice! That's even better than I thought! Certainly better than my tributes did last year. Last year, we just got a pair of fours. Not that there's anything wrong with a four – I mean, a kid with a four won. Still, a seven – that's a lot more impressive."

It is. And I don't have time to worry about whether that's good or bad before the voice continues. "Jae Park, with a score of seven."

Really? I wanted to do well, of course – and I tried my hardest – but I didn't really think I'd manage a seven. Then again, I didn't think Elinor would score so high, either. I mean, _someone_ has to score high, but I didn't really think it would be us.

But why not? We're two of the older tributes, after all. Why shouldn't we score well? Sure, we didn't do as well as the girl from Two who's been training, but that's certainly expected. Other than her – and maybe some of the others in her group – I can't think of any other tributes I would have been certain would score better than us.

Still, I imagined that Elinor would score better than me. But I guess the series of traps I managed to build in fifteen minutes must have been more impressive than I thought. Or maybe the Gamemakers are messing with me. With us. If she thinks I scored as well as her because I've been hiding something, that could stir up some tension between us. Is that what they want?

Of course it is. We're in a fight to the death – of course tension is what they want. But that doesn't mean they're going to get it – not from us. And certainly not from Maia, who's grinning like an idiot and patting both of us on the back. "A _pair_ of sevens. Oh, this year is going to go so well for District Six. I'm sure of it!"

For District Six. She still hasn't grasped – or maybe she's just ignoring – the fact that it can't go well for both of us. Not forever. Strange, that someone who did this last year would be so slow to accept that. Or maybe she simply doesn't care whether we live or not, as long as we do something exciting first.

But 'exciting' isn't exactly my first priority – or Elinor's. We want to survive – if possible, without drawing too much attention from the other tributes. But our pair of sevens – that's sure to draw at least some attention, unless the other tributes start scoring better soon…

"From District Seven, Aria Barker, with a score of five." I glance over at Elinor. Only two points lower than our own scores, but, suddenly, that gap seems much larger. For whatever reason, the Gamemakers decided that _we_ were above average – or, at the very least, above where the average seems to be with more than half the scores announced. And I can't think of too many tributes in the next six districts who might score higher.

Certainly not the boy from Seven, whose face flashes on the screen next. "Bentley Norman, with a score of four." A lot of fours so far. Then again, most of them have gone to younger tributes. Two fifteen year-olds, a fourteen-year-old, and now a thirteen-year-old. But that doesn't mean we can just ignore them. A thirteen-year-old with a score of four won last year, after all. We can't afford to underestimate anyone.

"From District Eight, Lacey Blair, with a score of eight."

Huh. She's not really one I would have guessed would score that high. She outscored both Elinor and me, and she's younger. I guess age doesn't mean everything. She must have some sort of skills that she was hiding during training. Or maybe I simply ignored her because her partners – the boys from Nine and Eleven – seemed like the bigger threats. I'll have to keep an eye on her.

"Atleigh Chaplin, with a score of three."

I can't help a sympathetic wince. The kid is only twelve, after all, but I'm sure he was hoping to do better than that. Hell, even the blind boy from Two managed to score a two. Only one point above that … that's not great.

Maybe I shouldn't feel sorry for him. I shouldn't care, really. I don't know him. I only know his name because the host _just_ said it. If you'd asked me who the male tribute from Eight was, I wouldn't have been able to tell you a thing about him. Still can't tell you anything, really, except the fact that he scored a three.

But would he be able to tell you any more about me? Elinor and I have mostly kept to ourselves during training – not getting to know any of the others, yes, but also not letting any of the others get to know us. It's easier that way. Easier for everyone.

Except the Capitol, of course. They want us to get to know each other. To get attached to each other. It makes for better drama. More tears when one of us dies. I shake my head, glancing over at Maia. I won't give them that pleasure. Maybe Elinor and I will die in the arena, but we're not going to cry. We're not going to beg. We won't let them have that.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

Lacey must be a lot smarter than I thought. Obviously, she has something she's been hiding from the rest of us. From what we learned during training, she seemed … well, competent, I guess. But I never figured she'd score that high. What did she show them?

I'm still trying to figure it out as Mel's face flashes on the screen. "From District Nine, Melanie Mills, with a score of three."

Ouch. The same score as the twelve-year-old from Eight. Only a point higher than the blind kid from Two. I hope I do better than that. No, I _know_ I'll do better than that. It's not as if I went in there and sorted a few bugs or anything, like Mel probably did. I've gotten pretty good with a knife over the last few days. Maybe good enough to come close to Lacey's score…

"Jim Demetrius, with a score of nine."

What?

No sooner have the words left Noelle's mouth than Phoenix is suddenly beside me on the couch, her arm around my shoulders, grinning. "Jim, that's … that's amazing. What did you show them?"

 _Nothing._ I almost say it, too. And that's not true, of course, but it was nothing I thought was that impressive. Certainly nothing I thought could rival the skills of a girl who's been training for the Games. But if the Gamemakers thought it was good enough…

I smirk. "I guess you'll just have to wait until the Games to find out."

To my surprise, Phoenix is smiling. "I guess I will. You've got more surprises than I thought."

I shrug. "Let's just hope Mantle measures up." Honestly, though, I don't know whether to hope that that he does or that he doesn't. If he doesn't score as well as Lacey and me, that makes him the weak link. And maybe that makes sense – he's only fifteen, after all. He's the youngest. But if he _does_ score well – if we _all_ score well…

Then that changes everything. After our private sessions, Lacey found Mantle and me and suggested that we should try to stay with the weapons at the center of the arena – at least, if no one else tries the same thing. At the time, it seemed like a silly idea. I didn't think we'd be enough of a threat to scare anyone away. But now…

Maybe. There are still larger alliances in the arena – starting with the one that's scored as well as us – the boy from One got an eight, which ties Lacey's score, and the girl from Two got a nine, which ties mine. If their other partners did as well…

"From District Ten, Hannah Malacek, with a score of ten."

I can't help a whistle. "Wonder what _she_ did." Sure, maybe it's not surprising that she got a ten. She's been kicking the trainers' asses for the last three days. What _is_ surprising is that she's the _only_ one who got a ten. That she scored better than the rest of her group. Better than anyone else so far. Better than me.

 _Don't get cocky._ Of course she scored better than me. I wasn't expecting to score this high. A nine is quite good enough for me, thank you very much. Besides, now her ten will make her a target. Now everyone knows _her_ group is the one to beat. Besides, there are more of them.

"Darrin Tunell, with a score of eight." And now he has the highest score in _his_ group. Not that most of his allies were particularly impressive. The girl from Five scored a six, and her district partner scored a five. The boy from Seven scored a four, and their other ally – the girl from Eleven – isn't likely to do particularly well.

Sure enough, the girl's face appears on the screen next, along with the announcement. "From District Eleven, Phoebe Linden, with a score of three." The same as the other twelve-year-old. And the same as Mel. Maybe I should feel sorry for them. Hell, if I wasn't here, too, I'd feel sorry for _all_ of them – even the ones who scored high. But I _am_ here. I'm a tribute, too. And I can't afford to feel sorry for the competition.

 _The competition._ But that includes Mantle, whose face appears next. "Mantle Grimes, with a score of seven." I nod, satisfied. Not bad for a fifteen-year-old kid. Only a point lower than Lacey's score, and only two points lower than mine. Not bad at all.

I turn to Phoenix. "So what do you think?"

Phoenix's smile has started to fade. "I think they're setting you up."

"What do you mean?"

She shakes her head. "Look at who has scored high. Your group … and the larger alliance. They're trying to frame you as equals – or, at least, close to it. They're trying to set you up as rivals."

I nod. "Of course they are. So what do we do about it?"

"You go along with it. There's no way to avoid it, really. The audience will be expecting you to fight each other eventually."

I shrug. "Of course they will. It's a fight to the death. We'll have to fight everyone eventually."

"Everyone who isn't already dead," Phoenix nods. "You're right – you'll have to fight. But it doesn't have to be immediately."

"But maybe it should be. They won't be expecting that, will they?"

"Now that all of you have scored high, they might. You'll have to be ready for anything. Lacey had a good idea when she suggested trying to gain control of the weapons at the start of the Games. But you'll have to be ready to change that strategy if things start to go wrong."

"You mean if we start to die."

Phoenix shakes her head. "Hopefully, you'll be able to tell whether it's a viable possibility _before_ the fighting actually starts. Pay attention during the other group's interviews. See if you can gauge what they're going to do – and react accordingly. And, remember, there are five of them."

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Joining a larger group is starting to seem like an even smarter idea than I'd originally thought. Sure, it had seemed like a good idea before, when the other option was Isaac and myself, going it alone. Any group would have been preferable to that. Not that there's anything wrong with Isaac, but the two of us … well, we're not exactly the most intimidating pair.

But our group, on the other hand … well, that's another story. Already, our partners have scored a ten, a nine, and an eight. Not bad at all. I just hope that Isaac and I can come close to that, or … what? Would they kick us out of the group this soon before the Games?

Maybe. We were the most recent additions, after all. If anyone's going to go, it's us. Which is why our private sessions were more crucial for us than most tributes in the arena. Most of them aren't going to lose a spot in their alliance if they score too low. Even the other larger alliance – the other group of five – doesn't seem likely to kick anyone out for not scoring high enough.

Which is good news for their group, really, because they've had a three, a four, and a five, along with the six and eight that their older members managed to scrape out. But even if they did decide to split up – the older tributes forming one group, the younger ones forming another – I have a hard time trying to imagine them targeting each other.

 _My_ group, on the other hand – if we split up, none of us are stupid enough to think that the rest of the group won't target us. We're one of the more dangerous groups in the arena, which means we're the biggest threat to the others if we _do_ end up splitting up

Isaac glances over at me as a number 12 finally flashes on the screen. Here it comes. My score, and then his. "From District Twelve, Ivone Eister, with a score of six."

Okay. Okay, that's not bad. A six is higher than quite a few of the tributes so far. Less than half have scored higher than that. But _all_ of my allies have scored higher. Great. That's just great.

"Isaac Swarthy, with a score of seven."

Even better. My _younger_ district partner just scored higher than me. Sure, he's only a year younger. And he only scored one point higher. But, still, that leaves me with the lowest score in our group. Six, seven, eight…

"Huh." I shake my head, going over the numbers again in my head. "None of us got the same score."

"What?" Isaac doesn't put it together right away. "There were a couple other sevens. Sixes, too."

"But not in our group," I explain. "I got a six, you got a seven, Ra got an eight, Jayda got a nine, and Hannah got a ten. It's almost like they're … well, ranking us."

Isaac shrugs. "Of course they are. That's what the scores are for."

"Not completely. They could have just ranked us one to twenty-four. But they didn't. Giving us scores from one to twelve lets us know which tributes' skills are similar to our own. But inside our own group, no one got the same score."

"Same with the other group of five," Isaac realizes. He's right. They got a three, a four, a five, a six, and an eight. And the group of three got a seven, an eight, and a nine. "It's like they're trying to cause tension within the groups," Isaac observes.

I nod. "Maybe they don't _want_ groups this large, and they're trying to break us up before the Games even start."

"Or maybe they _do_ want groups this large, but they want us to fight each other," Isaac reasons. "If everyone in one group scored higher than everyone in another group, the lower-scoring group would try to get away from the other one. But if they give us similar scores – or, at least, give _some_ of the people in the different groups similar scores – then they might think it's worth the risk."

He's trying to be vague, but it's obvious which groups he's talking about. Our group has the highest-scoring tributes … but not by much. The fact that the gap between us is so small might prompt some of the other groups to target us at the start. We'll have to be ready for a fight.

But that … that's not exactly a new realization. This is the Hunger Games. It's a fight to the death. Of course we'll have to be ready for a fight. The other groups' high scores are a good reminder of that, but it's not as if we were going to ignore them, anyway. Not as if we thought this was going to be easy.

 _We_. I have to stop thinking like that. Isaac and I have been working with this group less than a day, and already it's so easy to start thinking of the group as a team. But we _can't_ be a team. Not forever. We can help each other survive for a little while, but, eventually, that has to end.

And, if anything, the rest of my group's high scores have reinforced what I was already thinking: I don't want our alliance to end in a fight. Because that's a fight I don't think I would win. If – no, _when_ – our group breaks up, I hope it's peaceful. If things start to get too tense, of course, I could always try to slip away. But I don't want to do that until…

Until what? Until I've gotten all the use I can out of them? That's what my father would say. Stick around while they're useful, leave when they're not. That's what he'd do. And that's what I'm going to have to do, if I want to survive this.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

"Looks like you were smarter than I thought," Aria observes as I make my way back into the room. "When you didn't show up, I thought you'd tried to run away. The general said you'd just gone to watch the scores with your group, but … well, I figured that might be a euphemism."

General Tyrone shakes his head. "I told her you wouldn't be that stupid – especially after what happened last year."

I swallow hard. I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't occurred to me. I'd assumed there were some sort of rules about us having to stay in our rooms. When Tyrone had told me there weren't, I'd thought that maybe – just _maybe_ – I'd be able to slip away before anyone noticed I was gone.

But he's right – it was the thought of what happened last year that stopped me. If I tried anything that stupid, even if they didn't manage to catch me, my father would pay the price. And he's already got it bad enough. If I die in the Games … well, at least they won't hurt him for it. And if I win…

"Learn anything useful?" Tyrone asks as I take a seat across from him at the table. It still unnerves me a bit when he asks that. As if he's expecting me to spy on my teammates. To try to learn anything I can about them so that I can use it against them later. As if he's read my mind, Tyrone shakes his head. "Relax. I didn't mean anything by it. I hope you enjoyed yourself. I suppose Isaac's better company than I am."

He's smiling, but I know he didn't mean a word he just said. He certainly wanted to know if I'd found anything out. He doesn't care about whether or not I enjoyed myself, or about whether Isaac is better company. This isn't about enjoying myself. This is about learning how to survive.

And for him … what's in it for him? I never thought to ask him – and I'm certainly not going to now – but I can't help but wonder what would make one of the Capitol's most famous generals volunteer to be escort for District Seven, of all places, rather than a more loyal district. Certainly he chose to be here. The escorts who didn't – the ones who would clearly have preferred another district – they don't seem to care how the Games go. Phoebe's escort, for example. He probably didn't even notice that she was gone.

But Tyrone … as much as I don't want to admit it, he's been doing his best to help us. To help _me_. Maybe even more than Aria, but only because I've been more receptive to his help. Aria seems content to go it alone – both in regards to the other tributes and to accepting help from our escort. And maybe she's got the right idea. Maybe it's better not to get attached to the other tributes, and better not to place too much trust in a man whose only loyalty is to the Capitol.

Still, it feels good to know I won't be going into the Games alone. And as much as it _shouldn't_ be about whether it feels good or not … well, there's something to be said for feeling safe. For having people I can trust.

Trust. That's the thing. I certainly enjoy the others' company. Ada and Apollo. Darrin and Phoebe. But how long will any of us really be able to trust each other? Trusting each other to wait for us after our private sessions is different than trusting each other with our lives during the Games. Ada and Apollo being willing to share their room with the rest of us is different than being willing to share the food or water that might make the difference between life or death once we're in the arena.

Aria's glaring at me from across the table. Is she upset that Tyrone seems more interested in helping me? Surely she had a chance to get some advice while I was with the rest of my group. Is she jealous, maybe, that I've found people to work with? But it's not as if she was trying, not as if she _wanted_ to find anyone. Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with me. Maybe she's just angry about this whole thing.

Can't blame her for that, I suppose. There's a part of me that's still angry. Maybe there's a part that always will be. But just being angry … that doesn't change anything. The best thing I can do with that anger is try to survive. I take a deep breath, then turn the question back on Tyrone. "Did _you_ learn anything?"

Tyrone can't hide a smile. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you're a general, aren't you? What do you make of those scores?"

Tyrone leans back in his chair. "Your group's, or the others?"

There's no wrong answer there, but, to be honest, I'd rather have his opinion on my allies. "Mine."

Tyrone nods. "Always best to know your fellow soldiers first, to get a feel for their abilities, before you consider the enemy's capabilities. What do _you_ make of them?"

"Well, Darrin scored pretty well, but…"

"But what?"

"But there seems to be someone in _every_ group who scored really well. The girl from Ten. The boy from Nine. It's as if they're trying to establish a…"

"A hierarchy?" Tyrone finishes.

I was going to say 'pecking order,' but what he said sounds more … military. "Exactly."

"And you're worried you're at the bottom of that list."

"Well, not quite at the bottom. I mean, Phoebe scored lower, but … yes."

Tyrone smiles. "Do you know what my first job in the army was? I was a tailor. Fixed up the others' uniforms so that they looked presentable. It took me years to work my way up the ranks, but you know what? In the meantime, I was the best damn tailor they could have asked for." He leans forward a little. "So you're a younger tribute. There's no escaping that. So be the best young tribute in the arena. Be patient, and don't get ahead of yourself." He smiles a little. "Leave that to the others."

* * *

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 **Training scores are now up on the blog, as well.**


	17. A Self-Starter

**A Self-Starter**

" _Got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter, by being a self-starter."_

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I think I'm starting to get the hang of this. It was a bit odd at first – being expected to constantly interact with strangers after eighteen years of keeping company mostly with my own family. But I've successfully found a group of allies, and managed a higher training score than even I was expecting. Sure, both Hannah and Jayda scored higher, but that's only to be expected. They've both had training – Jayda specifically for the Games, Hannah during the war. A point below Jayda and two below Hannah – that's practically nothing, given that I've only had three days to catch up on at least a year's worth of training.

Still, I can't afford to get too confident. That was many tributes' undoing last year: undue confidence. I can't ignore the threat they pose. Nor can I afford to underestimate our other two allies. Isaac and Ivone both did quite well, considering they've had no more training than I. A six and a seven are quite respectable scores, and I only hope those numbers are reflective of their ability to contribute to the team.

I straighten my tie a little as Charlotte's interview continues. She's doing about as well as can be expected, considering how little material she has to work with. The better part of the last few years, it's clear, she's spent on the streets or working with the rebels. Neither of those is a suitable topic for an interview in the Capitol. She could try to win their sympathy, of course, as Maverick did, but they only sympathized with him because he was a loyalist. Rebels, many of them seem to believe, deserve whatever became of them during the war.

Foolish, of course – but no more foolish than some rebels' belief that the Capitol is populated by monsters. Both sides have been equally guilty of atrocities in the name of the larger cause. Whose cause was right is, at the moment, largely an academic matter. Whatever one might think, the Capitol won, and will continue to be in command for the foreseeable future.

Charlotte, at least, seems to recognize this, and makes no mention of her actions during the rebellion. That's probably the best course – if a rather boring one, leaving her little else to discuss. She could lie, I suppose – make something up to try to earn their support. But she doesn't seem to be a particularly skilled liar, and certainly seems relieved when her time is up.

My time, however, is just beginning. She avoids my gaze as I pass her on my way to the stage. I immediately take a seat next to our host – the president's daughter, Noelle. This is the first time we've met in person, but I remember watching the interviews last year. She was courteous and did her best to make conversation even with the most unpromising tributes. It must be a relief to be able to talk to someone like me, instead – even if she doesn't know it yet.

"Welcome to the Capitol, Ra," she begins with a smile. The audience cheers, all too eager to applaud her for … what? Smiling. It doesn't quite make sense, but maybe I should just go along with it.

"A bit late for a welcome, don't you think?" I remark. "We've been here nearly four days, after all – and we're about to leave."

Noelle doesn't miss a beat. "I suppose it's 'Welcome back' that you're hoping to hear in a few days – after the Games."

"I'm not hoping," I correct. "Hope implies uncertainty. There's nothing uncertain about what's going to happen in the Games." A little bit of an exaggeration, perhaps. There is a little uncertainty about how things might proceed once we're in the arena. But there's still no doubt in my mind about the end result.

But I'm not about to explain why. Not to her. Not to the entire Capitol. Not yet. If – no, _when_ – I win, then maybe I'll explain. I'll explain how I knew all along that it was my destiny to win the Games, to be the Victor that District One needs me to be, to lead us all into a better time, a better future.

 _Later_ , a quiet voice inside me whispers. It's not time yet. Let them wonder about the source of my confidence – for confidence, certainly, it must seem. "Nothing uncertain," Noelle repeats, impressed. "I take it you have a plan, then?"

I can't help a smirk. "Surely you don't think I'm going to tell all of you what it is – not with the other tributes listening." It's a bluff, of course. Necessary bravado. We've discussed the beginnings of a plan, but can't be certain of anything until we actually see the arena. We can't even be sure that it will be furnished with weapons, as it was last year, or what else might be provided at the start of the Games. Without knowing that, how can we truly formulate a plan?

Noelle laughs. "Of course not – not completely. But can you give us a hint?"

A hint. Maybe. Maybe something vague enough for them to interpret however they might want. I shrug. "Well, let's just say that I'm glad the people I'm working with scored as high as they did in training. That gives me confidence that we'll be able to put our plan into action."

Noelle lets that hang in the air for a moment, giving the audience time to try to work out who I might be referring to. I've given nothing away, of course. The groups that have formed are no secret to any tribute who's been paying attention over the last few days, and will be revealed to the audience soon enough. Trying to figure out which of the other high-scoring tributes might be my allies will give them something to ponder, at least.

"That sounds impressive," Noelle offers. And maybe it does – at least to an untrained ear. But if I'm going to emerge victorious from the Games, I'm going to have to do a lot more than _sound_ impressive.

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

To be honest, the interviews are all starting to sound the same. Everyone seems to be trying to play it smart. Trying to sound like they have something up their sleeves during their interview. The boy from One dropped a few cryptic remarks about his alliance – or, at least, remarks that might have sounded cryptic to the audience, since they have no way of knowing who he's working with. Jayda, too, seems to want to keep their alliance a secret. She doesn't mention Ra during her interview, just as he didn't mention her.

That … I don't get that. It's not as if none of the other tributes know they're working together. I haven't been paying particular attention to them, and even _I_ knew that they were a group. Me? I don't see any reason to keep my alliance a secret. The other tributes already know, and the audience will find out soon.

I fiddle with the buttons on my shirt as the interviews drag on. I shouldn't be anxious. This is nothing, after all, compared to the Games. But this is the last time the audience will see us before the Games. Maybe the last time my family will see me like this – happy, smiling, unharmed.

No. No, it won't be the last time. Even if I die in the Games, this _won't_ be the last time they see me smile. I'll make sure of that. Sure, there's not much in the Games to smile about, but if I can't keep seeing the bright side of things, then … well, then there's no point in living. Last year's Victor seems to be doing pretty well, so there's that to look forward to. Just get through the Games, and everything will be fine.

Right. _Just get through the Games._ As if it's that simple. I steal a glance at Atleigh as Dina trades places with Julian. He seems to be enjoying himself – and the silly costume they dressed him in. Not as silly as their chariot costumes, maybe, but it's still brightly colored and a bit patchwork, with a silly red-and-yellow hat to top it off.

Me? Well, Bizz and Buzz didn't seem to have too many ideas this time around. Maybe they realized they went a bit overboard during the chariot rides, and decided to compensate with something a bit … well, ordinary. My suit is a plain, metallic grey, and my tie is black. Black socks, black shoes – all rather dull.

No matter. It just means I'll have to shine a bit more in order to get their attention – if their attention is really what I want. My fingers twirl the buttons on my sleeve. Of course that's what I want. If they don't notice me now, then…

Before my brain can finish the thought, Dina's done. Shit, I don't even know what she said. Maybe they'll let us watch the interviews again later tonight. There's no reason to, I suppose, but part of me feels like I owe it to her – as her district partner – to hear what she had to say. I certainly hope people are listening to me.

I grin as I take the stage, and Noelle smiles right back. "Hello there, Rick. A bit less colorful today, I see."

I plop down in my chair, still smiling. "Guess the stylists realized all I need is my colorful personality." I wink. "It's gotten me this far." As if that's an accomplishment. Sure, I'm still here, but so is everyone else. It's not as if _this_ was the dangerous part.

But Noelle takes the comment in stride. "It certainly has. And a six in training – that's pretty impressive."

I lean back in my chair. "Oh, I bet you say that to all the tributes." She probably has. She certainly did last year – acting as if everyone's score is something to be celebrated. Maybe she figures it's a safe subject to talk about. But I don't want to talk about numbers. Instead, I open the door for her. "Hell, I bet you'd say the same thing to the kid I'll be working with in the arena."

She's not about to leave that question unasked. "And who might that be? Care to share?" She obviously knows, but maybe she doesn't expect me to say…

"Atleigh – the boy from Eight. It seemed like a snug fit." I chuckle. "Get it? Snug fit? Because Eight makes clothes?"

Noelle giggles a little. A few giggles from the audience, too. At least that's something. "So what makes the pair of you such a good fit?"

"Glad you asked. I figured I should find a partner who's _not_ like me, so we can take care of everything we might need in the arena in one fell swoop. I'm older, he's younger. I'm bigger, he's smaller. I'm a bit more talkative. He's a bit more serious. I'm clearly the better fighter." I flex my muscles as well as I can, earning a few more chuckles from the audience. Good. "But we do have one thing in common."

"And what's that?" Noelle asks.

 _Perfect timing._ I lean forward a little. "What we _all_ want – to survive. Sure, only one of us is going to get that, but that doesn't stop all of us from wanting it. Or, at least, I assume all of us want it. Not so sure about some of the volunteers. Not that I'm not enjoying it here, but it's not exactly something I would have _chosen_."

Noelle smiles. "And why not?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Because I don't want to die?"

"You think you're going to die, then?"

 _Aw, shit. Okay, make a joke._ "Well, I know Dina and I already _dyed_ , so to speak, but that was our stylists' idea."

Noelle giggles. So does the audience. The two of us keep going, all thought of dying – or _dyeing_ – forgotten for the moment. But we can't keep ignoring it forever.

* * *

 **Lexi Concord, 15  
** **District Four**

I was starting to think his interview would never be over. I can definitely see now why Dina didn't want to work with her district partner. Don't get me wrong – in any other situation, he'd be fun. But this is a fight to the death. This is something we need to take seriously. And, right now, I'm not sure he's capable of that.

But that's not my problem. Just like Jethro isn't my problem, despite the fact that he's standing next to me, chuckling along with Rick's lame puns. Maybe I should have suggested that _they_ team up. But the two of them together … no, that wouldn't have been a good idea.

 _That doesn't matter._ It doesn't matter who anyone else is working with – not really. I'm happy with the partner I've got, and I hope she's still content with our arrangement. And I really, _really_ hope the interviewer doesn't do anything to screw it up.

Because I'm not entirely sure what would happen if Dina found out the truth – the truth about my family, about my father. And the interviews last year didn't yield too many clues about whether Noelle might bring it up. She went after the tributes from Seven, and then revealed that the girl from Ten had been working with the rebels, but there were others she decided – for whatever reason – to leave alone.

Still, June warned me that she might bring it up. That having the child of one of the rebel leaders onstage might be too much to ignore. She coached me a little on what to do if Noelle _does_ bring it up, but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to take her advice. Am I really ready to distance myself from everything my father did, everything he ever was, everything he stood for? Would he understand, if he knew the alternative was my death? Or would he expect me to stand for the rebel cause?

No. No, if he'd expected that of me, then he should have damn well _told_ me he was a rebel. How can I be expected to throw my chance away for something I never even knew about until a few days ago? My mother told me the truth so that I would be ready for something like this, so that I wouldn't be caught off-guard. She can't expect me to act like a rebel, when, until a few days ago, I never knew anyone in our family _was_ one.

I clench my fists tightly as Rick and I trade places. He smile as we pass each other, but I can't bring myself to return the smile. It's all I can do not to run as I make my way towards Noelle. I take my seat carefully, flattening my pale yellow dress a little, hoping no one will notice how anxious I am.

"So, Lexi, can you tell me what you think of the Capitol?"

A safe question. She's avoiding talking about my family. Okay. Breathe. Maybe I'm off the hook after all. "It's lovely," I lie. "Everyone's so friendly and welcoming, always so happy to see us. It really is a pleasure to be here. It's a lot of fun." Maybe I'm going a little overboard. The last few days have been anything but _fun_ , but at least it keeps us on the topic of the Capitol, rather than—

Noelle nods a little. "I wonder if your father would have thought the same."

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ I put on my best smile. "I don't know. He was never very vocal about his opinions – at least not at home. He died during the war, and I never learned what happened to him. I've always wondered…" Close enough to the truth to make the lie easy – just what June suggested. Maybe it'll be enough.

Noelle leans forward a little. "So it would surprise you, then, to learn that your father was a leader in the rebel army."

It doesn't take much to feign a look of surprise. All I have to do is think back to the moment my mother revealed the same thing. "What?"

"It's true. He _did_ die during the war – he was executed by the Capitol."

"Of course, if he was a rebel. I just never imagined…" I take a deep breath, then lie. "I'm so sorry. Sorry for whatever trouble he caused during the war. If I'd known … well, I suppose I don't know what I would have done. I was only ten when the war began. I never knew any of this. I thought…" I shake my head. "I always assumed his death was an accident."

Noelle shakes her head. "Then I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you the truth. But at least now that you know, you have a chance to redeem your family's disgrace. You can't choose what your father did during the war. You were only a small child. But you _can_ choose what you do during the Games."

That's a warning – that much is clear. If I show the slightest hint of being a rebel, too, I'll end up just as dead as my father. But she's also offering me an opportunity – if I'm willing to take it. The chance to prove that I'm nothing like my father.

But am I?

That doesn't matter now. All that matters is what the Capitol _thinks_ I am. As long as _they_ believe I want nothing to do with my father's actions, I'll be safe. Well, as safe as I can be in a fight to the death. "Thank you for understanding." I nearly choke on the words, but I manage to get them out. "I promise – I won't let the Capitol down."

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

I'm starting to get sick of the way everyone is cozying up to the Capitol. On some level, I understand it – especially coming from those who have rather … checkered histories, I suppose. They're trying to make sure they aren't singled out as rebels during the Games. But the rest of us – those who had nothing to do with the rebellion – have nothing to prove. Nothing to gain by pretending to be enchanted by our time in the Capitol. Surely even the Capitolites watching can tell it's an act, that we don't really love it here.

How could we? I mean, sure, this would be great if it weren't for the damn Games, but the threat of death puts a bit of a damper on what would otherwise be an enjoyable visit. The food, the comfortable beds, the warm showers – it would all be so inviting, if it weren't for the reason we're actually here.

But we _are_ here for the Games. We're here to fight and kill each other, and no one seems quite willing to acknowledge that. Tributes are bragging about their high scores. Noelle is pressing them for details of their strategy. Everyone seems to be beating around the bush, rather than actually talking about the Games. About the killing, the dying, the loss.

Instead, it's all about the glory. The chance to represent our districts. The opportunity for fame and fortune and the adulation of the Capitol audience if we win. But twenty-three tributes _aren't_ going to win. Most of the people who take the stage tonight will be dead in a week or two. And no one seems to care.

Finally, the boy from Six is finished. He spent most of his times praising the efficiency of the Capitol, how everything ran so smoothly during our time here. And I suppose, compared to last year, it probably did. At least this year, no escorts were killed on the train ride. The chariot rides were a lot flashier. As a whole, things seem much more organized.

But that's not a good thing. Because it means that they're serious about keeping the Games going for a long, long time. Dozens – maybe even hundreds – of years. Thousands of children sent to their deaths. That's what they have planned for us. That's what we're about to be a part of.

I clench my fists as I take the stage. I can't afford to think about. There's only one Games I'm worried about right now, and it's this year's. If I manage to survive this, then I can worry about what comes next.

Noelle's smiling as I take my seat, somehow managing not to trip over my dark green, floor-length dress. It's beautiful – I have to admit that – but none of that matters. I'm not going to be wearing a dress in the arena tomorrow. Once we're in the Games, none of this matters anymore. All that matters is how willing we are to play their game. How willing we are to kill.

And maybe I'm willing to do that, but I'm not going to sit here and gush about it like the others. I don't love these smiling, cheering idiots – and I'm not about to pretend I do to win a little of their favor. I'm not stupid enough to say anything rebellious, but that doesn't mean I have to say anything _nice_.

Noelle, on the other hand, is practically oozing over with niceness. "So, Aria, what's been your favorite part of the Capitol so far?" she asks almost as soon as I'm seated.

I shrug. "Not dying has been good. Hope that continues."

The audience laughs a little. Shit. It wasn't supposed to be funny. But they think it's a joke – the idea that I'm actually concerned that I might die tomorrow. Everyone else has been putting on a brave face, pretending to be certain that they'll win. I'm still hoping I'll win, of course. And I'll do everything in my power to make sure that I do. But the truth is that every other tribute in the arena is going to be doing _their_ best to make sure that _they're_ the winner. And only one of us can win.

"I certainly hope so, too," Noelle agrees, completely ignoring the fact that she's said something similar to every tribute so far. She doesn't want to appear partial, of course, but we can't _all_ win. We can't all make it out of the arena alive. She can't hope for us all to survive, because then they wouldn't have a Game.

If she's aware of the contradiction, however, she doesn't seem to care about it. "Care to share anything about how you're going to go about making sure that continues?"

I shake my head. "No."

"No?"

"No. Why would I want to give away my strategy?"

Noelle laughs a little. "Not the whole strategy, of course – just a taste. A little tease, a little something for the audience, or for the folks back home."

"I'm not here to tease anyone. I'm here to fight. I'm here to kill. I'm here to survive. Period. I'm not here to talk." I turn to the audience, glaring, daring them to beg for a hint of the plan that I don't really have.

But, to my surprise, the audience cheers. Maybe they were getting just as bored as I was, just as annoyed that no one wanted to talk about what we're actually doing here. It seems a bit strange to think I would have anything in common with these Capitolites, but maybe there are enough people in the audience who are ready to be done with the festivities and just get on with it.

And, now that it's come down to it, so am I. I'm ready to be done with the lights and the show and the false grins that hide what they're really waiting for: the blood that's to come. I don't want to kill, and I certainly don't want to die, but the waiting is getting to be worse. If I'm going to die, then there's a part of me that would rather have it over with quickly. And if I'm going to live … well, then the sooner the Games are done, the better. And, apparently, a significant portion of the audience agrees with me, because they're still cheering.

* * *

 **Atleigh Chaplin, 12  
** **District Eight**

All the interviews are starting to get a bit repetitive, if I'm being honest. _How do you like the Capitol?_ Oh, it's wonderful. It's absolutely fantastic – aside from the fact that I'm here for a death match and will probably be dead in a few days. _What's your strategy for the Games?_ Well, I don't want to give away too much, but I'm absolutely certain I'll win.

None of them are certain, of course. None of _us_ , I suppose, because … well, neither am I. Even my district partner, Lacey, can't be _that_ certain that she'll win, despite the eight she managed during training. Sure, I only got a three, but I was never too worried about that. I'm one of the younger tributes, so it would probably look more suspicious if I _did_ get a high score. And Rick doesn't seem to care how well I scored as long as I'm still willing to work with him.

No, I can forget about 'doesn't seem to care.' He definitely doesn't care about my score, because he already went and told the whole Capitol that we're working together. Not that I mind, really, but I sort of wished he'd asked me first – or at least told me that he was planning to tell them.

It shouldn't be a big deal. The other tributes already know, after all. Anyone who's been paying attention during training – and most of them have – already knows perfectly well who's working with whom. It's not like any of us have tried to keep it a secret. And why would we? It'll be pretty obvious once we're in the arena, anyway. The only reason to keep it a secret would be if we were forming a much larger secret alliance and didn't want to get ourselves targeted by the other, stronger groups. But the two of us … well, I doubt anyone really sees us as a threat.

It's an opinion that will only be elevated by my absolutely ridiculous outfit. I mean, my _colorful_ outfit. Can't just start insulting my stylists once I'm actually onstage, but, seriously, what were they thinking? I look like a rainbow suddenly decided to puke all over a suit.

I clench my fists as Lacey and I trade places. Maybe this is just what people wear here. Most of the Capitolites in the audience – the ones I can see, at least – seem to be dressed rather strangely, as well. Noelle, however, is wearing a simple dark blue dress. Maybe she thinks it'll put us more at ease if she looks like a regular person instead of…

Instead of what? A freak? A monster? _We're_ the ones who are about to be killing each other, after all. Doesn't that make _us_ the monsters? Then again, we're doing it for their entertainment, so what does that make _them_? Maybe we're all monsters. Maybe that's simply what humans are.

"Hello there, Atleigh," Noelle gushes, completely oblivious to what I'm actually thinking. That's a good thing, I suppose. If they knew what I really thought of them, things might go very differently for me in the Games. Of course, it's not really that I have anything against the Capitol in particular. Most people in general are pretty rotten unless they want something from you.

And right now, the only thing the Capitol wants out of us is entertainment. So I play along. Beam back. Play the little kid. Because that's what I'm supposed to do. That's what they want to see. And I don't really have any reason not to give it to them, when that might be what keeps me alive. If I can win a little sympathy...

"Hello there," I croon back. "It's a pleasure to be here."

"It's a pleasure to have you."

It's not, of course. It's not a pleasure for me to be here, and she can't really be happy to have a twelve-year-old onstage. I'm sure if she and the others had their way, they would have an arena full of capable soldiers, rather than twenty-four uncertain, untrained little kids. If they had their way—

But they _did_ have their way. They're the ones who set this whole thing up, after all. They could have chosen all eighteen-year-olds. They could have chosen soldiers. Hell, they could have chosen _adults_. But they didn't. They chose _kids_. So now they have to deal with us.

"So, it seems you're working with Rick, then?" It's not really a question – Rick made it obvious earlier. But I nod along, anyway. "Can you tell us a little about what brought the two of you together?"

Not really a question I was expecting. Then again, I wasn't expecting Rick to mention the fact that we're working together. "I think … I think it's his sense of humor," I lie. "Oh, he's as scared as the rest of us, but he always manages to make a joke out of things, and I … I like that." A sympathetic _awwwww_ from the audience lets me know I've hit the right note. Actually, I've wanted to punch Rick in the face more than once for all his lame puns. But the audience doesn't need to know that. All they need to see is a little twelve-year-old who decided to team up with someone friendly.

And it's not a lie – not entirely. He _is_ friendly. And I figured … well, I guess I figured that would make him less likely to betray me. Less likely to leave me on my own. And more likely to get attached, to try to protect me. And let's be honest. I can use all the protection I can get.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

Maybe he thinks he's getting a head start on the Games. Earning the Capitol's sympathy. Making them care about him. And maybe that'll work – for a little while, at least. But it's not going to last. Their sympathy won't keep him alive forever. Eventually, he'll have to fight. And all the _awwww_ 's in the Capitol won't be able to help him then.

Or me, of course. But that's why I don't plan on playing that angle. Phoenix agreed with me – in between coaching Jim, that is. The only people who are really going to feel sorry for me are the ones who already feel sorry for all of us … which is to say, not exactly a majority of the Capitol. If they really felt that bad about kids being sent to their death, the Games wouldn't exist.

But they do. And we're here. And now we have to deal with it. And gushing over how friendly and wonderful our partners are isn't going to help … because all of us know the truth. No matter how attached we get, only one of us is coming out alive. Jethro knows it. I know it. And while we make a pretty good team, neither of us is about to throw away our chances for the other. Maybe that's not a great way to live, but … well, I guess it sounds like a good way not to die.

Before long, Atleigh's time is up, and the two of us trade places. He still looks ridiculous as he makes his way offstage. His outfit, of course, wasn't his fault. I'm just grateful my stylists opted for something a bit less loud. A simple golden-brown dress and a pair of light brown dress shoes – that's good enough for me. In less than twenty-four hours, none of this is going to matter, anyway. So why bother looking obnoxiously fancy?

The answer, of course, is because that's what the Capitol wants to see. The audience doesn't seem particularly excited as I take a seat next to Noelle. But that's okay. I don't need to be exciting. I just need to come across as competent, and that'll be enough for now.

Noelle, to her credit, does her best to seem excited, despite the fact that she's already interviewed sixteen tributes, some of whom are obviously more exciting than me. But exciting isn't always a good thing. Exciting attracts attention – both from the audience and from the other tributes. And I don't want the other tributes' attention.

"It's been quite a day so far, hasn't it, Mel," Noelle offers, trying to strike up a conversation, hoping for something interesting.

"It certainly has," I agree. "But I don't think it really compares to what's going to happen tomorrow."

Noelle smiles. "Already thinking ahead – I like that. Can you tell us anything about your plans for the Games – without giving anything away, of course?"

"I plan to fight," I answer vaguely. Not right away, of course, but they don't need to know that. I shake my head. "Truth is, I don't really have much of a plan. _Can't_ really have much of a plan, until we figure out exactly what the arena looks like, what kind of supplies we'll have access to. Trying to plan anything concrete before knowing what we're really up against just sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"We," Noelle repeats. "So you've found some partners, as well?"

I nod. "One – although I can't say I chose him for his friendly personality."

"Ah, so it's a him. That narrows it down. Care to share who the lucky boy might be?"

The lucky boy. She makes it sound like I'm looking for a date. I shrug, trying to hide my annoyance. I'm not here for them to play matchmaker. If they'd wanted us to make _friends_ , they should have chosen some other sort of competition – something a bit less deadly. "Well, I don't know if that makes him _lucky_ or not," I admit. "But it's Jethro."

She's not surprised. Of course she's not. She's been watching us. She knows who's working together. "And what brought the two of you together, if it wasn't his charming personality?"

I shake my head. "He knows what he's doing. What he's getting into. So do I. We both know what we're going to have to do in order to survive – and we're willing to do it."

Noelle leans forward a little. "So you're willing to fight – to kill?"

"Is that really a surprise?"

"Most of the others haven't seemed so … eager."

"I'm not. But _you_ are," I add with a smirk at the audience. " _They_ are. That's what you want to see, isn't it? A fight? So why should it be surprising that I'm willing to give you that?"

Noelle doesn't seem to have an answer to that. But she doesn't need one, because the audience erupts into cheers. I can't help a smile, but at the same time, _what_ they're cheering for is … well, it's disturbing. They're egging me on. They _want_ me to fight. They're eager for a thirteen-year-old little girl to become a murderer.

No, not a murderer. A killer. Is there a difference? Maybe? Is it still murder if every other tribute in the arena is willing to do the same thing to me? Is it still murder if the only other option is death? Maybe. Maybe the words don't matter. In a few days, I'll either be a killer, or I'll be dead. And even if that makes me a murderer – even if that makes me a monster – I know which option I want.

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 18  
** **District Ten**

I think they're finally starting to understand what the Capitol really wants to see. Some of the other tributes have tried to appear sympathetic. Tried to gain the audience's favor by smiling and making jokes and trying to appear friendly. But that's not really what the audience wants to see. And it's certainly not what they'll want to see once we're in the arena tomorrow.

And I'm giving them exactly what they want. That thought still makes my stomach churn, but what other choice do I have? There's only one thing I could do that _wouldn't_ play into their hands. I could refuse to fight. But what good would that do? It would only mean I would die sooner, and make the rebels look weak in the process.

Because there's no chance – none – that Noelle's not going to bring up the time I spent with the rebels during my interview. And even if she doesn't, there's no way that my ten in training isn't going to point to the fact that I've obviously had some experience that the others lack. They probably already know. I have no doubt the other members of my group do. Once we're in the arena, I'll have to watch my back.

But that was always going to be the case, I remind myself as the applause for the boy from Nine dies down and we trade places. I was always going to have to watch my back. My chances of surviving this were always going to be slim. Nothing has changed – at least, nothing that matters.

Sure enough, Noelle jumps right in as soon as I sit down. "So, Hannah, a ten in training – the highest score this year. Pretty impressive."

I shrug. "Thanks."

"Care to share some insight on that?"

"Let's just say I know what I'm doing."

"It would seem you do. Could it be you picked up some things during the war?"

There it is. "I spent the war doing what I'm good at," I answer. "And I mean to keep doing it."

"And what's that?"

"Killing everyone I can on the other side."

"The other side," Noelle repeats. "I take it you mean the Capitol."

"Back then, sure. The other side was the Capitol. Now … well, now it's everyone else in the arena. Everyone else is going to have to die, so I can't exactly afford to be picky. Everyone is on the other side."

"Even your district partner?" Noelle probes. "He got a pretty good score, too."

"He did. But so did some other tributes. And scores aren't everything – last year should have been proof enough of that. If you're hoping for district partners like last year – willing to risk their lives to help each other – I'm afraid you're going to have to look in a different district. I want to win. That means he has to die. It's not personal – those are the rules. _Your_ rules," I add with a glance at the audience. "I didn't make them. But I'll play by them, if that's what it takes to survive."

I get some applause for that. For accepting that I have to play by the Capitol's rules if I want to get out of here. For realizing that any sort of rebellion inside the Games would be suicide. But it doesn't take long for the applause to die down. "I guess that only leaves one question," Noelle continues. "You volunteered to be here. Why?"

It's not quite the question I was expecting. But maybe it should have been. It's a normal thing to ask, I suppose, when someone volunteers for a fight to the death. _Why?_ To be honest, I've asked myself the same thing several times since the reaping. What am I doing here? Did I really do it to save that girl at the reaping? A girl I didn't even know, whose name I barely remember? Was it really that, or was it something else? Something more fundamental?

I shake my head. "Because I can do this. I can fight. I can kill. I've been doing it for … for what seems like my whole life. And I'm good at it. Sometimes I think … I think it's the _only_ thing I've ever been good at. I have a chance of winning this fight. The other girl wouldn't have. Do the math. I'm the one who should be here." I shake my head. "I belong here."

"So you believe you have a chance."

"Would I be here if I didn't?"

"Maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know your chances are slim – just like everyone else's. And you're still here. So maybe you believe you have a chance. Or maybe you're just looking for something … something to fight for. To believe in. Your rebellion went all to pieces, and maybe … maybe you don't know what else to do with your life. You said yourself that this is the only thing you've ever been good at. So maybe you leapt at the chance to keep fighting because there's nothing for you back in District Ten."

I meet her gaze with a cold stare of my own. "If there's nothing for me back in District Ten, it's only because people like _you_ stole it from me during the rebellion. My family. My friends. Last year, you took Aubrey. So if I have nothing to live for, it's because of people like _you_." I turn my glare on the audience. "My only regret is that it isn't twenty-three of you that I'm facing in the arena, because then I would do my best to make sure that each and every kill was mine." My time isn't quite over, but I get up anyway and head backstage. I'm done.

And I probably just sealed my fate. I probably played right into their hand – painting the rebels as murderers who want them all dead. But you know what? I _do_. I do wish I could kill them, instead. But, since I can't, the Games will have to do. And if I die, I'm going to make sure I go down swinging.

* * *

 **Mantle Grimes, 15  
** **District Eleven**

I'm starting to think that some of these tributes _want_ to die. I mean, sure, I volunteered to be here, but at least _I_ had a good reason – even if I'm not going to tell them that. At least _I'm_ getting away from my father. Either way this ends – with my victory or my death – I'll be sparing myself a lifetime of abuse. I didn't volunteer on a whim. And I didn't volunteer to save anyone but myself.

Which is good, I suppose, because saving myself is going to take all my effort once the Games begin tomorrow. I fiddle with my tie as the interviews continue. Tomorrow. How can that word seem so close and so far away at the same time? Less than twenty-four hours from now, we'll be in the arena. And yet we still have to get through these stupid interviews first.

I guess I don't really get the point. All we have is a few minutes to try to explain why we're going to be the one to survive. I'd rather let my actions do the talking for me. Once we're in the arena, what we said in the interviews isn't really going to matter.

Unless we say something incredibly stupid, of course. Like revealing that we'd like to kill twenty-three of _them_ instead of each other. And, sure, I understand where she's coming from. There are people _I'd_ rather kill, too – starting with my father. But he isn't here. He's not going to be in the arena with me. And wishing otherwise … well, that just seems like a waste of time.

The audience applauds once more – this time for Phoebe, who's doing her best to smile and play along. But she can't hide the fact that she's terrified. Most of them are. Most of them would rather be anywhere but here, rather be doing anything but this.

But me … I can't help this feeling that Hannah was right about something. That some of us are meant to be here. That this is where we belong. After what my father did to me – after what I've been through – the chance to do the same thing, but without repercussions, _does_ have its appeal. No one is going to blame me for what I do in the Games – unless I do something truly horrifying, like the girl from Seven last year.

But barring something truly horrific, nothing we do in the Games has any consequence in the real world. Whoever wins – whoever manages to survive – gets a clean slate. No one blames Maverick for the kills he made. He did what he was supposed to. He fought. He killed. He survived. And that's what I mean to do, too.

Applause again, and Phoebe and I trade places. I quickly take a seat across from Noelle. "Hello there, Mantle," she grins, as if she hasn't said the same thing to more than twenty other tributes already. "How are you feeling tonight?"

Might as well be honest. "Impatient," I admit. "Now that training's over, I'd really rather just get this over with."

Noelle smiles. "Well, you'll get your wish soon enough. Just get through tonight, and you'll be in the arena."

I lean back a little in my chair. "Can you tell us a little about it – the arena?"

Noelle smirks. "I believe _I'm_ supposed to be interviewing _you_."

I shrug. "It was worth a shot."

Noelle nods. "Is that why you volunteered for the Games? Because it was worth a shot?"

"I volunteered because I want to be here. What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what would make someone interested in hosting the Games? What's so intriguing about interviewing twenty-four kids who are about to die?"

"Not all of you are about to die," she offers.

"You're dodging the question," I point out.

She laughs. "Fair enough. What's intriguing about you isn't the fact that you're about to die. We're all going to die sooner or later. The fact that so many of you are going to die at such a young age is tragic, but in the last few years, we've all had our share of tragedy – some more than others. No, what's really interesting about you is how you're going to _live_ what may be your last few days. What you're going to do in order to survive – and what you'll learn about yourself along the way. _That's_ what makes a good story." She smiles a little. "And that's what I am. I'm a storyteller."

"And what sort of story are you planning to tell about me?"

"That's up to you. We all know the basics of how this story is going to play out. Twenty-four of you go in. One winner comes out. There'll be some fighting along the way. Death. Anger and pain and sadness. But the details … those are up to the twenty-four of you. You get to decide how this story plays out."

I shake my head. "That sounds wonderful. It's also a lie. We all know that the Gamemakers have some control over what happens."

"Some. But even that control isn't absolute."

"I'm surprised to hear you admit that – that the Capitol isn't all-powerful."

"Why?" She smiles. "Being all-powerful – that doesn't sound like much fun."

"How so?"

"Imagine knowing exactly what's going to happen at every moment. Never being surprised by anything. Expecting every twist, every turn. Anticipating every move before anyone else even _thinks_ of it. Where's the fun in that? I don't _want_ to know exactly what's going to happen in the Games – not yet."

I shake my head. "Then I'd say you're going to enjoy the next few days."

"Because you have a lot of surprises planned?"

I smirk, playing along. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

 **Three more chapters before the Games! They'll be shorter than these ones - basically just a quick glimpse into the tributes' heads the night before the Games, the morning of, and during the launch.**

 **Our next poll is up - and this is the one that _will_ have some effect on the Games. Vote for the tributes you'd like to sponsor, and the top three will receive a sponsor gift during the Games (provided they survive the bloodbath). This one'll be up until the Games begin.**


	18. Where You Are

**Where You Are**

" _Look at where you are."_

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

I can't help wondering whether or not she really knew. Lexi seemed just as surprised as anyone else when Noelle brought up her father's part in the rebellion. Which leaves me with two options. Either she knew, and she's been lying to me this whole time. Or she didn't, which quite possibly makes her the most oblivious person I could have picked to team up with. I mean, how do you _not_ know that your father was a rebel leader? Even if she was only ten at the time, how do you not pick up on something like that? But either that's the case, or she was lying.

I'm not sure which is the better option. At the same time, though, I don't know what I would have done in her place, either. Was she keeping quiet about it in the hope that the Capitol didn't know? That Noelle wouldn't bring it up? That didn't exactly work out well for the tributes who had rebel connections last year. And speaking of things not working out well, the Gamemakers saw to it that they died in the arena last year. Is that why she didn't tell me? Did she know I'd be more hesitant to work with her if I knew about her father?

Maybe. Maybe I would have been. I turn to head for the elevator, but someone grabs my arm – and it's not Lexi. It's her district partner, Jethro. "She knew," he whispers. "Not until her family came to say goodbye … but she knew."

I take a step back. "Why would you want to tell me—"

He shrugs. "Because you deserve to know. And because it's not going to hurt me." That much is true, at least. He loses nothing by telling me – if it's even true. What if it's not? What if he's just trying to drive a wedge between me and Lexi? I'm not sure why he would want to do _that_ , either. It's not like we were specifically planning to come after him. He doesn't really have any reason to lie.

But does that mean he's telling the truth?

* * *

 **Isaac Brookfield, 8  
** **Brother of Dina Brookfield**

No one wants to tell me the truth – about what's happening on the screen. They wouldn't let me watch last year – at least not after the interviews. But I heard some of the kids at school talking about it. And that's worse. Just hearing about it rather than being able to see it … it leaves a lot to the imagination. And let's face it, I've got a pretty good imagination.

But I didn't have to imagine Dina's interview. They let me watch that. She seemed nervous – and I guess I would be, too. No one wants to say it, but I know what they're not telling me. What they're all trying not to say: There's a good chance that Dina isn't coming home. That's she's going to die in the Games. It's not fair. It's not right. But no one wants to say that out loud. They're too scared.

Mother and Father herd us off to bed, but we all know we're not going to be able to sleep. It was easier last year. No one we knew was in the Games. It was all a bit more … distant, I guess. But this … this is different. This is real. My sister is going to be fighting for her life tomorrow, and there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing except hope.

But hope for what? For her to be a killer? Maybe that's why everyone's so quiet about it – because they know she's not. I can't picture her killing a bug, let alone another person. But that's what she's going to have to do if she wants to survive. She's going to have to kill … and probably not just one person. They say the boy who won last year killed three. _Three_ people.

I don't know if she'd be able to do that.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

I'm not entirely sure what made me tell Dina the truth. It's none of my business, certainly. If she couldn't tell that Lexi was lying, then she probably _deserves_ to have her as a partner. And if she could tell and was willing to work with her, anyway … well, then they also deserve each other. And, most likely, it won't make a bit of difference. If the fact that Lexi's father was a rebel wasn't enough to split them up, the fact that she knew about it before the interviews probably won't make a dent in their alliance, either.

Not that I particularly _want_ to make a dent in their alliance. I couldn't really care one way or the other. But to see both of them so oblivious to the truth … it's just annoying, really. I don't even care _what_ they do about it, as long as they both _know_ now. Lexi should have known better than to think she'd be able to hide the truth from the Capitol. At least now it's out in the open.

I shake my head as I make my way to my room, nodding to June on the way. "Get some sleep," she suggests. Right. Like I was just planning to lie in bed staring at the ceiling all night. To be fair, though, that's probably exactly what I'm going to end up doing – at least until I'm finally exhausted enough that I can't stay awake anymore. I can't imagine anyone's actually getting a good night's sleep tonight.

Certainly not Lexi and Dina. Even if they've still decided to work together, they're not the only ones who have to deal with the truth. Now the other tributes know Lexi's father was a rebel. What if some of them decide to act on that information?

 _Not my problem._ That's what I keep trying to tell myself. That I don't really give a damn about what happens to Lexi. But the truth is … well, even if we're not working together, we're still from the same district. We still have that much in common.

But is that really going to mean anything once the Games start?

* * *

 **Franklin Brackish, 53  
** **Uncle of Jethro Brackish**

I just hope he has the sense to stay away from his district partner once the Games start. Not that I have anything in particular against the girl. She seemed nice enough. But teaming up with rebels didn't seem to work out well for anyone in the arena last year.

Fortunately, it didn't sound like Jethro's going to be working with anyone besides the girl from Nine. And maybe that's a good match. From the sound of her, at least she realizes that the Games are just about killing – nothing more. All these flashy lights and fancy dresses and crazy costumes – none of it is going to mean a damn tomorrow once they're actually in the arena fighting for their lives.

And, sure, they're two of the younger tributes, but maybe that will play to their advantage – for a while, at least. Or maybe not. Maybe the other tributes will remember how well a few of the younger ones did last year. Hell, the boy who won was only thirteen. If there's anything that proves that Jethro has a chance, it's that.

But it's only that – a chance. Not a certainty. As much as some of them would like to pretend that they're certain they're going to win, the truth is that none of us can be certain – not until the end of the Games. I turn the screen off and head for my bed. No point in staying up all night worrying. That's not what Jethro would want me to do. And it's certainly not what I want _him_ to do.

But it's probably what he's going to be doing anyway. Lying there thinking, considering, weighing all the possibilities even though he knows he's not going to be able to do anything about them until tomorrow. He's a thinker, that one – like his father. Just like my little brother, in that way.

I just hope it works out better for him.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I just hope I'll actually be able to get to sleep tonight. Apollo and I say goodbye to Darrin, Bentley, and Phoebe as we leave the elevator. Isaac is already waiting for us at the door, ready to escort us into our room. "Any last-minute advice?" Apollo asks hopefully.

I don't know what he's expecting Isaac to say. It's not as if anything he says now is really going to make a difference. Not as if he's suddenly going to have some magical piece of advice that will help us survive the Games tomorrow. Not as if he's suddenly thought of something he hasn't suggested over the last few days. But Isaac smiles a little and motions for the two of us to have a seat on the couch. "Just remember where you are," he says quietly. "And remember who's watching."

Apollo nods. "Our families. The districts. The Capitol. Everyone's watching."

Isaac nods. "True, but it's not just them. Everything that happens from this point on is part of history. The Games aren't just screened in the districts. They're recorded for future generations to watch. They're your legacy, and what you do tomorrow _matters_. It's not just your families now who are watching. It's future generations of Panem."

I shrug. "Who cares? Are they really going to care what we do – or just who lives and who dies? I mean, when they go back and watch the Second Annual Hunger Games, are they really going to care who placed second or tenth or twenty-fourth? Or are they only going to care about who the Victor is?"

Isaac leans back a little in his chair. "You tell me. If you lived a hundred years from now and you were looking back, trying to figure out what people were like a hundred years before, would you look at the victor … or would you look at the majority of people? The people who lost?" He smiles a little. "Twenty-three of you are going to be dead soon. But what you do still matters. It's still a part of history." He leans forward a little.

"And history has its eyes on you."

* * *

 **Astrid Lavoisier, 50  
** **Mother of Ada Lavoisier**

I just hope she can manage to forget that we're all watching. That we're going to see everything she does. That all of _Panem_ is going to be watching what she's doing. She's always been a self-conscious young girl. I just hope she's able to put that aside and … well, and do what has to be done.

What has to be done. I shake my head as I turn off the screen and usher the others off to bed. We all know what has to be done. What's going to start tomorrow. The fighting. The killing. If Ada's going to come home, she's going to have to kill. And, if I'm being honest, I don't know if she has that in her.

Then again, I guess none of us really know what we have in us until the time comes. Until the war began, I wouldn't have guessed that some of my friends and neighbors had it in them to kill. But, when it came down to it, they did. They fought – on both sides of the war. They killed. Ordinary people, willing to kill their friends and neighbors over … what? Ideas. Just ideas – nothing more. Ideas that, for most of us, wouldn't even have any impact on our lives.

But Ada – she'll be fighting for more than that. She won't just be fighting for an idea. She'll be fighting for her life. And that's much more important. Much more precious. If _that_ were what the rebellion had been about – if the rebels had really been fighting _for_ their friends and families, rather than just some vague notion of freedom, I have a feeling the war might have gone very differently.

But they weren't. However noble their intentions might have been – and I _do_ believe that most of them meant well, at least at the start – they weren't really thinking about what was going to happen to them, or their families. They got so busy looking into the future, worrying about what future generations were going to think of them, that they forgot about the present.

I just hope Ada doesn't make the same mistake.

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 18  
** **District Ten**

It was probably a mistake – what I said during the interviews. Probably sealed my own fate by saying it. But I still can't quite bring myself to feel sorry for it. It's not as if I really increased my chances of dying. They were never going to let me out of that arena alive. At least now if – no, _when_ – I die … well, at least now the truth is out in the open. I hate them – all of them – and there's no point in pretending otherwise.

Athena is waiting for Darrin and me when we return. I'm prepared for a lecture, but she simply offers me a plate of cookies. I take one. Why not? Darrin quickly follows suit. "Try to get a good night's sleep tonight, if you can," Athena suggests.

I can't help a chuckle. "Really? That's all you have to say? After what happened during the interviews?"

Athena shrugs. "I suppose that was always bound to happen. Just try not to do anything stupid once you're actually in the Games. You managed to get yourself a good alliance – though goodness only knows how. Don't waste that."

Sound advice. I suppose I should be grateful for that. She knows there's no way to cover up or excuse what I said, so there's no point in fretting over it.

"What about me?" Darrin asks, maybe offended that she didn't mention how great his alliance is. Don't get me wrong – it's not as if his allies are completely useless. And at least he didn't shoot himself in the foot during the interviews.

Athena smiles a little. "Same thing. Get some sleep. Don't do anything stupid. I hope I see one of you in a few days."

 _One of you._ I'm not stupid enough to think there's a chance of it being me. Not after what I've said. Not after what I've done. But at least I haven't done anything that will ruin Darrin's chances. And as for my allies…

Well, let's just say I don't feel too bad about dragging most of them down with me.

* * *

 **Olivia Parrish, 12  
** **District Ten Citizen**

 _Just stay alive. That's repayment enough. Live your life, and don't worry about mine. Can you do that?_ That's what Hannah said when I said goodbye to her. I wonder if I was the only one. From what she said during the interviews, I don't think she had any family left. Probably didn't have many friends – at least, not many who survived the war. No wonder she wants everyone in the Capitol dead.

 _Can you do that?_ At the time, I figured the answer was yes. Yes, I would be able to watch the Games without constantly imagining what would have happened if she hadn't volunteered. Yes, I would be able to forget that _I_ should have been the one riding in that chariot, standing on that stage, preparing to fight to the death. But now…

Now, it's all I can think about. It could have been me. _Would_ have been me, if she hadn't been so … what? Brave? Reckless? I'm not entirely sure which one, but, either way, she's in the Games and I'm not. That's something I'll never be able to forget.

I know she has no chance. Everyone's been telling me that since word got around that she fought for the rebels. But I can't help hoping that, somehow, she'll find a way to win. Maybe I just don't want to feel responsible for her death. Maybe I just don't want to believe that she knew from the moment she volunteered that she was going to die. I head for my room, but I already know I won't be able to sleep well.

Not until the Games are over.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

General Tyrone is silent when Aria and I return. Aria heads directly for her room. Maybe she's got the right idea – get a good night's sleep. But I already know I'm not going to fall asleep for a long time. Not tonight. I don't know how _anyone_ could hope to sleep soundly. Tyrone motions to a chair, and I have a seat next to him. Strange, how something so simple doesn't feel as uncomfortable as it would have a few days ago. Strange, how I've gotten used to his odd calmness, the relaxed tone in his voice when he asks if I have any last-minute questions.

I hesitate. There's only one question on my mind. But I'm not really sure I want an answer to it. "Do you … do you really think I have a chance?" I ask quietly.

Tyrone raises an eyebrow. "Everyone has a chance."

I nod a little. "Officially, yes. You have to say that. Theoretically, mathematically – yes, we all have a chance. But that's not what the Games are really about. Do you think _I_ have a chance?"

Tyrone doesn't answer right away. "A year ago, I don't know if I would have," he admits. "But actually seeing the Games – seeing what anyone is capable of, given the right circumstances – yes, I think you have a chance. You'll have to play it smart. Be careful. And no one can ever be certain … but yes. There's a chance."

That's all I needed to hear.

* * *

 **Lance Norman, 35  
** **Father of Bentley Norman**

I wish I could have said something. Wish I could have said goodbye. Said that I loved him. The day of the reaping, I was just so … so out of it. Ever since the war, things have been different. There have been good days and bad days. Days when I almost feel normal and days when I wish I'd died along with the soldiers I served with. Usually, there's no way of telling which days are going to be which. But now … if Bentley doesn't come home, there are going to be a lot more bad days.

But if he survives – if by some chance he actually happens to win this thing – will he have to deal with the same thing? Sure, the boy who won last year seems to be doing all right. But he was a loyalist in the first place. Hell, he probably enjoyed the whole thing. Bentley – he's a good kid. Having to fight, to kill other innocent kids … I don't know what that would do to him. I don't know if he'd be able to handle it. Maybe it would be better if…

If what? Because there's only one other option. If he doesn't kill, he's going to die. Those are the only two end results of the Games. Fight or refuse. Kill or be killed. Win or die. Maybe it would have been better if those had been the options during the war. Maybe more of us would have fought on in those last few months if we had known … if we had known that it was our children who were going to pay the price.

I don't want to believe that. I want to believe that we gave it our all. That we tried our hardest and were simply overpowered. But towards the end, if I'm being honest, we weren't thinking about the future. We weren't concerned with our glorious revolution anymore. We just wanted it to be over. We just wanted a decent meal and a warm bed. We just wanted the fighting to end.

We never imagined that something worse was about to begin.

* * *

 **Mantle Grimes, 15  
** **District Eleven**

I never really imagined it would feel quite like this. All the times I pictured myself preparing for the Games, the night before actually going into the arena … I never really imagined the sense of anticipation. Almost eagerness. Tomorrow, everything begins. I get a new start. A new … well, a new _life_ really. Once we set foot in the arena, nothing else matters. Our families. Our past. Our fears. We get a new chance. And there's something about that that's alluring.

Of course, there's also a part of it that's terrifying. Because if we have nothing that matters, then we also have nothing to lose. And there's nothing scarier than someone with nothing to lose. My father taught me that, when we lost my sister Morning to a Capitolite general during the war. He didn't care what happened after that – to any of us. Especially to me. And now … now I don't care what happens to him. Or any of them.

Them. My family. The family that, in my desperation, I left behind. What will happen to Lester and Sully if I die? Will he turn on them, the way he turned on me? Will they have the strength I didn't – the strength to actually fight back? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it won't matter. Because if I make it back, I'll never have to worry about them again. I'll never have to worry about _anything_ again.

That's the idea, at least. The Victor gets a life of luxury. And that certainly seems to be the case for last year's Victor. But he was already a loyalist. Already a tribute the Capitol was happy to paint in a favorable light. Me? I don't quite have that perk. But at least I wasn't stupid enough to paint myself as a rebel – unlike some of the other tributes.

But I can't help wondering whether that's going to be enough.

* * *

 **Morning Grimes, 21  
** **Sister of Mantle Grimes**

I wonder whether he even remembers me – my little brother. He was only ten when I was taken away – if taken is even the right word. I was sixteen. The general – General Cassius Blake – was thirty years older. He could have taken me by force. But he didn't. Instead, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. The Capitol was pressing every able-bodied man into service in their army. If I agreed to marry him, he said, my father would be left in peace.

But if Mantle had a good reason for volunteering – if he was escaping from something – then the years since then have probably been anything but peaceful for them. Was it a mistake to agree to leave? What would have happened if I had refused? Would Cassius have seen to it that my father was killed in battle – or worse? Would that have been better?

A cry from the other room startles me from my thoughts. The baby. _My_ baby. My second. Lavender. Lucius, her older brother, is almost three years old now. I rub my eyes and make my way to Lavender's crib. "Shhh," I whisper soothingly, lifting her tiny body from the blankets. "It's okay. It's okay."

Maybe she can tell that it's not. I haven't told Lucius what's really happening. How could I? How could I explain to a toddler that the boy on the screen from District Eleven is really his uncle? How could I explain to my family – my new family – my feelings about the little brother I haven't seen in five years? Does he blame me for leaving?

Do I? As much as I tell myself that I did it for them – to keep my family safe – it's hard to deny that I've gotten a pretty cushy life out of it. My husband dotes on me, and even if he may not love me the way my family did in District Eleven, I can't deny he loves our children. Our children will grow up having everything they could want, never having to fear for their lives or the lives of their friends in the Games.

I suppose I should be grateful for that.

* * *

 **Atleigh Chaplin, 12  
** **District Eight**

"I suppose you're going to say we should get some sleep," Lacey remarks as we return to find Eve waiting for us. It seems like an obvious thing to say – if a bit silly. None of us are going to be able to sleep well tonight. Sure, we can try, but anyone who says they're not going to be thinking about the Games all night is either stupid or lying. I don't mind admitting it – I'm scared. All of us are – those of us who have any sense, at least.

Eve smiles warmly. "Would it make a difference if I did? I know I'm not going to get much sleep tonight."

That catches me by surprise. I mean, sure, this is her job – taking care of us for a few days – but I just assumed she would be used to this by now. Used to the death. There's only been one year of the Games, of course, but she let it slip that she was a doctor during the war. Surely she's seen plenty of death.

"Of course, but that doesn't make it any easier," she explains when I ask. "The moment death doesn't have any effect on you at all … well, that's the moment when you know it's time to stop whatever you're doing. Death _should_ give us all pause – especially the death of so many, so young."

It's a nice thing to say. Considerate. Warm. But that doesn't change what's about to happen. Doesn't change the fact that she volunteered for this position, knowing what it entailed. Lacey and I – we didn't choose to be here. We have a right to be upset. We have a right to mourn. Eve knew exactly what she was doing, and she chose to be here, anyway.

I don't understand that.

* * *

 **Mavel Chaplin, 33  
** **Mother of Atleigh Chaplin**

I don't understand how anyone could think this was a good idea. How anyone could believe that the Games are a good solution – or even the only solution – to what they think is wrong with the districts. Sure, it's understandable that they wanted to do _something_ to make sure that this sort of rebellion didn't happen again. That makes sense. But choosing _children_ – children as young as Atleigh – surely they have to realize that their actions will only cause even more unrest.

Because it's there – just below the surface. A bubbling tension. Last year, it was as if the entire country was in shock. Too surprised at the fact that the Capitol had decided to go through with the Games – and that the tributes had actually behaved as expected – to even think about resisting. Now that the shock has worn off, other feelings are bubbling up to the surface. Anger. Fear. Resentment. And, flowing beneath them, determination.

Or maybe that's just District Eight. Eight has always been one of the more rebellious districts, and was one of the instigators of the rebellion. We have no way of knowing, of course, whether other districts feel the same … but how could they not? How could anyone not be furious that our children are being ripped away from us and murdered for no fault of their own. Atleigh was seven when the war began – ten when it ended. Not really old enough to completely understand what it was all about, much less to have taken any part in it.

But that doesn't matter to them. And that'll be their downfall in the end – being willing, or even eager, to punish the innocent along with the guilty. It's only a matter of time before it comes back to bite them – hard.

I just hope Atleigh is still alive to see it.

* * *

 **Elinor Siesto, 18  
** **District Six**

I just hope I'm still alive by this time tomorrow. And the next day, of course – and the next. But, right now all of my focus is on tomorrow. It has to be, if I'm going to survive. I can't afford to think too far ahead. Can't afford to make plans for a few days from now that could be completely derailed by the time we actually get there. Even making plans for _tomorrow_ – that's still a bit uncertain, because Jae and I have no way of knowing what the arena will hold.

The same is true of the others, of course. Maybe I should be grateful for that – that we're all going in blind. Sure, we know what happened to the tributes last year. There will probably be weapons. And we'll know better than to step off our pedestals this year. But beyond that … it's a mystery. The arena will almost certainly be different. The weapons may be different.

And, most importantly, the tributes are different. There are larger groups this year than any in the arena last year. And even though Jae and I aren't part of one, the very fact that they exist may change the dynamics in the arena pretty drastically. Last year, most of the groups, when it came down to it, were on pretty equal footing. Equally inexperienced, equally terrified, but also equally willing to do what had to be done.

Which is to say, not very willing. Most of last year's tributes were a bit reluctant. And maybe I would have been, too, if I had still been unsure – right up until the last moment – that the Games were actually going to go forward. This year, that hesitation is gone. The Games are happening. There's nothing that any of us can do about it.

There's nothing left to do but play the game.

* * *

 **Claudio Siesto, 40  
** **Father of Elinor Siesto**

I already know I'm not going to get any sleep tonight. I just hope Elinor can. She's going to need all the rest she can get. Me? I'll just be sitting here watching, along with the rest of District Six. The rest of Panem. Watching, waiting, hoping for our daughter to return.

I know there's a chance. If there's anything that last year's Games made clear, it's that anyone has a chance. But, by the same token, everyone _else_ has a chance, too. And that means there's a chance that Elinor won't make it back. That, in a few days, she'll be dead. And as painful as it is to think about that, we have to accept that it's a possibility – or it'll be even harder if it actually happens.

I close my eyes once more, trying not to think about it. Trying not to imagine what Elinor will have to do – what she'll have to _become_ – if she wants to survive. Whatever she might have to do to make it out, of course, is better than the alternative. So many people did terrible things during the war – and moved past them once it was over. The Games are no different.

Except for the fact that they're children. They're innocents. There were children who fought during the war, of course, but the majority of the soldiers on the front lines were adults. Sure, Elinor is eighteen. But that's still so young. Too young to die. Too young to kill. She's one of the older tributes, but I still can't help thinking of her as my little girl. It's not like me to be so sentimental, perhaps, but this is different. This is life and death – _her_ life or death.

And I'm not ready for it.


	19. Where You Started

**Where You Started**

" _Look at where you are. Look at where you started."_

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

I can't help a chuckle as Titus shakes me awake. It's not funny, of course – the Games. The fact that I could very well die today. What _is_ funny is the realization that if I'm waking up now, I must have finally managed to fall asleep at some point last night – something I didn't really think I would be able to do. But, apparently, I did, because, although a bit groggy, I feel surprisingly well-rested. Maybe that'll help me during the Games.

Or maybe not. A good night's sleep, after all, isn't exactly going to change the fact that I'm already at a disadvantage. But it certainly can't hurt. And neither can a good breakfast. I dress as quickly as I can, then head out to join Jayda and Titus at the breakfast table. Both are silent, which I appreciate. It's better than them pretending to care. Pretending to believe that I have a chance – the I really might survive this.

It isn't long before the door opens, and Charlotte enters. I already recognize her voice – and almost knew her smell before she spoke. Of course, the number of people who might be arriving to visit us are pretty slim. Still, the fact that we've gotten to know each other so well over only a few days is … I don't know. Reassuring? Worrying? It can only be good for me – can only help me survive longer – but, at the same time, I don't want her throwing her own chances away to help me. Because if I can't win – and, let's face it, I probably can't – I think I'd want her to.

She places a hand on my shoulder. "Ready?"

No. No, I'm not ready. I'll never be ready for this. None of us will. But I'm not going to say that. Can't say that. I can't afford to start feeling sorry for myself. Not now. So I nod, and do my best to muster a smile.

"Ready."

* * *

 **Clarence DeMont, 16  
** **Friend of Julian Masters**

I should never have let him take my place. That thought hasn't left me since the reaping. What was I thinking? Even if he wasn't blind, how could I have let my best friend volunteer to take my place? At least I would have had a chance. Maybe not much of a chance, but what chance does Julian have? What was I thinking? What was _he_ thinking?

I roll over in bed, silent. Everyone else is already awake. I can already hear the voices on the screen, explaining what's about to happen. The tributes are about to be taken to the arena. The Games will begin. And Julian … what will happen to him then? What is he supposed to do once they're in the arena?

I know he did it to save me. Because he loves me. He wants me to live. But living like this – every moment filled with regret for letting him take my place – is this really the life he would want for me? If he dies in the Games, I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life – the knowledge that _I_ should have been the one in the arena.

But I'm not. Julian is – or he will be soon. And I'm here, watching helplessly as my best friend goes off to his death. Slowly, I get up and make my way to the kitchen, where the rest of my family is waiting for me. My mother slips an arm around my shoulders, and my father nods silently. We still have each other. They still have me. And I still have them.

But soon, I won't have Julian any more.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

Soon, I won't have to worry about any of them anymore. Once we're in the arena, it won't matter what the others do. All I have to do is get as far away from the rest of them as I can – and then stay there as long as I can. Beyond that…

Beyond that, I don't really have much of a plan. Not yet. How can I? We have no idea what the arena will even look like. Even General Tyrone doesn't know yet – or, if he does, he's certainly not saying. He's pretty quiet as Bentley and I finish our breakfast – the last good, full meal either of us is likely to get for a while – maybe forever. But I'm not about to let that stop me from eating now. We're going to be in the Games soon, so I might as well go in with a full stomach.

"Any last advice?" Bentley asks quietly, and I can't help rolling my eyes. I know he just wants to live – just like the rest of us – but the fact that he keeps asking Tyrone for advice is … I don't know. It just makes him seem even younger, even more helpless. Eventually, he's going to have to figure out how to survive on his own … or he's going to die. Tyrone won't be there with him in the arena.

The general shakes his head. "Trust your instincts. Don't trust your allies. That pretty much sums it up." And maybe it does. After all, that's why I chose not to find any allies in the first place – I didn't want to have to worry about trusting them. Bentley has _four_ allies he needs to worry about. None of them seem particularly likely to turn on a thirteen-year-old kid, but you never know.

It just seems better not to take the chance.

* * *

 **Sparrow Barker, 20  
** **Sister of Aria Barker**

I just hope she doesn't take any stupid chances. The boy from our district last year charged into the fighting right at the start of the Games, and got himself killed almost immediately. I just hope Aria has the sense to get away, and then…

And then what? She may be able to escape the others at the start of the Games, but she can't just keep running from them forever. Eventually, one way or another, she's going to have to fight. Whether she attacks someone else, or whether another tribute finds her, this is going to end the same way. It's going to end in blood.

I just hope it isn't her blood. Maybe Aria and I haven't always been particularly close, but we're still sisters. We already lost our brother. I don't want to lose her, too.

At the same time, though … no one does. All across Panem, twenty-four families are thinking the same thing. Wishing for their sister, their brother, their son or daughter to come home. Hoping that, somehow, their loved one will be the one to make it out alive. But only one family is going to get their wish. Do I really have any reason to think it'll be mine?

I shake my head as I glance over at our parents. They're both silent as we finish our breakfast. None of us have eaten much. Whatever happens now is out of our hands, but that's not going to stop any of us from worrying, from fretting over every second between now and … well, whenever it's over – one way or the other.

I wonder how long that'll be.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

I can't help wondering how long it'll be before they come for us. The three of us – Mel, Phoenix, and I – finished our breakfast a little while ago. Now we're just waiting – waiting for whoever's going to come to take us to the arena. "Did you have to wait this long last year?" I ask, drumming my fingers on the table.

Phoenix nods. "Yes. I guess they figure you're more likely to make a mistake at the start of the Games if you're nervous. Anxious. Irritable. So just … try to keep a clear head."

Irritable. Damn right I'm irritable. If they're going to send us into a death match, the least they could do is just get on with it already. Mel, on the other hand, seems oddly calm. Maybe she's simply enjoying every moment she can before we're actually in the Games. Or maybe she has a plan.

I shake the thought from my head as the door opens. Phoenix is right about wanting us to be anxious. I'm starting to get suspicious of my thirteen-year-old district partner. Next thing you know, I'll be worried that Mantle and Lacey are going to turn on me. But I can't start thinking like that. Not unless I want to go nuts. The other tributes in the arena are going to be enough for us to worry about. We can't start getting suspicious of each other.

Not yet. But eventually … eventually there is no _we_. No _us_. Eventually, the only person I'll have to worry about is myself. But not yet. No, I'm glad I have them with me – for now, at least. I wouldn't want to be in the arena alone – not for long. Phoenix squeezes my shoulder gently as the guards at the door nod in our direction. "Be careful."

Right. Careful. In a fight to the death. Got it. I nod and flash her a smile.

"I'll see you in a few days."

* * *

 **Dave Nickelson, 18  
** **Friend of Jim Demetrius**

I hope he's still alive in a few days. I catch a glimpse of Jim as the cameras show the tributes on their way to the hovercrafts. A few of them are accompanied by their escorts. Some of the others are in groups – some with their district partners, some with other tributes. Jim winks at his escort – a young woman named Phoenix – as he boards the hovercraft. I shake my head. Moments away from being in the arena, and he's still flirting.

It's how he deals with things. It's how he dealt with the war … and everything that happened afterwards. His sister's death, his father's temper, his mother's depression – to anyone else, it might seem as if it's had no effect on him, as if the bad parts of his life have just passed on by, leaving him unchanged.

That's the way he likes it. He doesn't want anyone else to see how hard things are, how much things really _do_ get to him. But he can't fool me. He's just as nervous as the other tributes are as he's led to the hovercraft. Just as frightened that he might never see another person who isn't trying to kill him again. But he manages to smile, anyway – because he can. Because he's always been strong enough to put on a brave face.

But how much is that really going to help him in the arena? Will his bravado and charm really be any use when people are actually trying to kill him? Will he be able to buckle down and do what has to be done? I honestly don't know. I don't even know what _I'd_ do if I were in his place. I mean, sure, I'd try to fight if someone else attacked me. But would I ever be able to make the first move?

Will he?

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I can't help wondering who will be the one to make the first move. Last year, the pair from Seven tried to attack the girls from One and Four almost immediately. Rebels against loyalists. Exactly what the Capitol wanted to see. But that sort of dynamic … it doesn't really exist this year. Not between different alliances, anyway. Instead, we've incorporated that rivalry into one large alliance. Hannah's a rebel – that much has been obvious from the start. Jayda's a loyalist. Ivone and Isaac … I have to admit, I don't quite have them pegged yet, but I haven't noticed any strong leanings one way or the other.

And me? I've always been above such things. Whatever their loyalties were during the rebellion, they're of little concern now. Once we're in the arena, each tribute's loyalty is to himself, and _only_ to himself. We'll fight alongside our allies only as long as it truly suits our interests. I'm no exception. I have to be ready to abandon this alliance if it proves unsuitable.

For now, though, there's plenty to be gained by remaining with my group – and, for now, at least, little to lose. Charlotte, on the other hand, is surely becoming aware of just how much of a disadvantage she's placed on herself. She and Julian have become practically inseparable, which will only make it more painful for her when, inevitably, they are separated. It shouldn't be my concern. But it irks me more than I'd like to admit that her actions have been so … unreasonable.

Maverick manages a smile as we head for the hovercrafts. "Stay safe," he offers quietly. Gloria is a little more enthusiastic, pumping our arms up and down as she shakes our hands one last time and tearfully waving goodbye.

It's almost enough to make me glad I'm leaving.

* * *

 **Seth Schintozo, 43  
** **Father of Ra Schintozo**

It'll be such a relief when he comes back. I have no doubt he will, of course. The spirit chose him for a reason – a reason that surely goes beyond a pointless death in the Hunger Games. No, he'll be back. It's just a matter of when – and how many others he'll have to kill in order to achieve his goal. I hope it isn't too many. That he doesn't come home with too much blood on his hands. He's my son, and I'll love him no matter what, but the others might not be quite so understanding.

It took a while to even convince them that Ra being reaped must have been part of the spirit's plan. I don't suppose I can blame them for that, though. We've done our best to isolate ourselves from the district. The idea that one of _us_ could be reaped was almost unthinkable. But it happened, so it must have happened for a reason. There _must_ have been a reason. That's the only explanation.

I take my wife's hand as we catch a glimpse of Ra on the screen. He looks as confident as ever. Good. He'll need that in the arena. Because even though he's destined to come home, I have no doubt the arena will pose some difficulty. Nothing that he can't overcome, of course, but, still, I wish there was another way for the spirit to accomplish … whatever will be accomplished by Ra's victory.

Recognition, perhaps. For years, we've separated ourselves from others. How many others in the district even knew Ra existed? I don't know. But if Ra's spirit has chosen this as our time to come out of the shadows and be recognized, then that can only be a good thing.

Can't it?

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

Maybe it's a good thing Ada and I decided to work together. It means Isaac's attention isn't split as he escorts us to the hovercraft. "Be careful," he reminds us. "Remember, the Games are going to last a while. If you get hurt now, it's only going to hamper you later. So try to stay away from the fighting. And stay together. The others are less likely to attack a group of you."

I hope that's true. Hope that the sheer numbers of our group will be enough to keep others away – at least for a while. Because, on our own, most of us aren't particularly intimidating. Even the older tributes in our group – Ada and Darrin – aren't exactly the scariest bunch. That seemed like a good thing when I was looking for people to help me _survive._ I wanted to make sure I found people I could _trust_.

But, now that it's come down to it, I _also_ want people who are going to be able to protect me. People who are going to actually be able to help – to fend off an attack – if one of the other tributes _does_ decide that maybe we'd make a good target, after all. And if _that's_ what I'm looking for, do the others really fit the bill?

I shake my head as we make our way to the hovercraft. It's a bit too late to start second-guessing myself now. What am I going to do? Leave them? And join … who? Who would want a fourteen-year-old joining them this soon before the Games? No, for better or worse, I'm stuck with the alliance I've chosen.

Ada rests a hand on my shoulder, as if she can tell I'm nervous. Not that that takes a lot of perception, I suppose. We're all nervous. All of us who have any sense, at least. In a few hours, some of us will be dead, and the rest of us … well, I suppose we'll be a lot more nervous.

I just hope I'm still alive to _be_ nervous.

* * *

 **Kara Lancey, 17  
** **Sister of Apollo Lancey**

Even from a brief glance on the screen, I can tell he's nervous. Apollo's shaking like a leaf as he and Ada board the hovercraft. From the look of things, they've gotten pretty friendly – she has an arm around his shoulders, and he manages to smile up at her. Maybe they'll be working together in the arena. I guess it makes sense that he'd be drawn to his older district partner. A seventeen-year-old girl who probably reminds him a bit of me.

Father is silent as the hovercraft takes off. There really isn't much to say, I suppose. Not until the Games start. Not until the fighting begins. I scoot a little closer to him on the couch. There's already an empty spot at our table. We already lost our mother during the war. If father and I lose Apollo, too, I don't know what we'll do.

But how many of the other tributes' families are thinking the same thing? How many of them lost a mother or father, a brother or sister to the war, and are terrified of losing another family member? Twenty-four tributes are about to be thrown into the Games. Only one of them is coming out. Only one family is going to get their wish. And in order for it to be us, Apollo is going to have to kill.

That thought scares me more than I'd like to admit. We both saw what the war did to mother. She came back, but she was never the same. It was only a matter of time before she snapped and killed a Peacekeeper. Even if Apollo manages to survive this – even if he comes home – will he be the same little brother I know and love?

Or is that boy already gone for good?

* * *

 **Lexi Concord, 15  
** **District Four**

Everything I thought I knew is gone for good. I glance over at Dina as the two of us take our seats in the hovercraft. She looks … I don't know. Unsure. Maybe she's just nervous – she'd have to be crazy not to be. Or maybe … maybe it has something to do with what happened last night. What was always bound to happen, I suppose, no matter how hard I tried to avoid it. They were never going to leave me alone, never going to just ignore what my father did during the war. I can only hope that my performance was enough to convince them that I'm nothing like him.

I close my eyes as the hovercraft takes off. I'm honestly not sure whether that's true or not – whether I am, in fact, anything like my father. How well did I really know him, if he was able to hide everything from me? How well do I know _any_ of my family, if they were able to keep his secret for years? And if I don't really know them, then how well can I really know myself?

I keep trying to tell myself that that's a good thing. That whatever we did before the Games doesn't really matter now, anyway. I've got a clean slate now. I don't have to worry about what my family did, or who I was, because I get to decide who I _am_ now. _I_ get to decide what I'm willing to do, how far I'm willing to go.

Dina manages a smile as we land. "I'll see you in a little while, then," she whispers as we're led out of the hovercraft, already in some sort of building. Probably underground – last year, the tributes rose up into the arena from below. If this year is the same, the arena is already above our heads.

I wonder what's up there.

* * *

 **Justin Concord, 17  
** **Brother of Lexi Concord**

I wonder if we made the right choice – hiding the truth from Lexi. At the time, we thought we were doing the right thing. We thought we were protecting her. Father was already dead – nothing we told her would bring him back. Mother and I assumed she would be happier if she didn't know.

And maybe she was – for a while. But if she makes it home – if, somehow, she manages to survive the Games – I can't help wondering if she'll ever forgive us. She was furious when we told her the truth after the reaping, and, now that I really think about it, I can't really blame her for that. How would I feel, if mother had tried to keep the truth from me? Even if she thought it was for my own good, I'd like to think that I'd rather know the truth.

Especially if it was something that could get me killed. That was why we told her after the reaping, of course. We knew father's death would come up during the interviews, and we didn't want her to be blindsided. But there was nothing we could do to stop the interviewer from bringing it up. Nothing we can do that will stop the Gamemakers from targeting her, if that's what they mean to do.

The only person who can help Lexi now is herself. She did a good job during the interviews – trying to distance herself from everything that father did, everything that he was. It hurt, imagining how he would have felt if he knew, but she's only doing what she has to in order to survive. She just wants to live.

Surely he wouldn't blame her for that.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

I manage a quick nod to Isaac as we're led off in different directions down the hallway. _Just stick with the plan._ That's all any of us can do now – go with the plan and hope that we make it through the next few hours alive.

Not that it's much of a plan, but it's the best we could come up with – Isaac, Ra, Jayda, Hannah, and I – without really knowing anything about what the arena's going to look like. Last year, the tributes ended up in a circle around a big pile of weapons. A few of them ran and grabbed weapons from the pile, but most of them turned and ran the other way – came back for weapons later, when it was safer.

But there are five of us – five tributes, with some of the highest scores in the arena. We won't be running. Who should we run from? The other group of five, made up of mostly younger tributes? The girl from Eight and the boys from Nine and Eleven? Sure, they got some pretty impressive scores, but, when it comes down to it, we have them outnumbered.

Still, it doesn't hurt to be prepared for anything. And just because we outnumber them doesn't mean that they might not be able to hurt us before we have a chance to overpower them. I told the others I'd stick to the plan – _their_ plan – no matter what. But if a lifetime of living with my father and years with Ramsey have taught me one thing, it's that looking out for yourself sometimes means being willing to abandon a plan – or a group – if it starts to go bad.

And that's what I'll have to be ready to do.

* * *

 **Ramsey Flynn, 18  
** **Girlfriend of Ivone Eister**

I just hope Ivone is as ready for this as she was for the war. Maybe she didn't particularly want to get involved at first, but she was a natural. Always one step ahead of the people who were trying to catch us, always thinking of what the next move should be – and always ready with three or four backup plans in case the first one went to hell.

But this is different. During the war, at least we could trust each other. When we made a plan together, neither of us had any reason not to hold up our end of the bargain. This … this is different. Sure, she might have found some people to work with – and I hope she has – but, in the end, how much can they really trust each other? Each of them knows the others have to die in order for them to make it home, so there's no reason to stick their necks out for anyone else.

Hopefully, though, Ivone already realizes that. She's been in more than one tight spot before – and usually hasn't needed any help getting out of it. If she manages to get out of this alive … well, let's just say I wouldn't be too surprised.

I settle in on the couch as the screen returns to Noelle talking about the Games. No fun in watching the tributes get dressed in whatever their silly arena outfits are this year, I suppose. Last year, it was light-colored shirts, khaki shorts, and sandals. Not bad for their sandy maze – and not bad for showing off all the blood, either. That's what it's all about, after all – the blood. No matter how much they might enjoy the silly costumes and lights beforehand, this is what it's really about.

I wonder what they've come up with this year.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

I'm not quite sure what to make of these outfits. They're certainly different than last year's. Brown, skintight pants. A dark green, long-sleeved shirt. Black socks, thin black shoes. Maybe it means the arena won't be as hot. Last year, the weather was warm, the sand was hot, and there wasn't much water until it started raining. If they gave us warmer clothes this year, maybe that'll be different.

Or maybe not. We'll find out in a few minutes, I suppose. A clear plastic tube is waiting in the corner to carry me up to the arena, as soon as the Gamemakers give the word. I take a deep breath, pacing the room. I'm not ready for this. I thought maybe after training, I'd be more prepared. Thought that maybe, since I found some allies, I'd be ready for this. But I'm not. I'm not ready.

"Tributes, please enter your transport tubes at this time!" A booming voice, echoing through the room. One of my stylists takes a step towards me. Maybe ready to force me in if I don't go willingly.

I shake my head. "Okay. Okay. I'm going." I step into the tube, and the door closes behind me. For a few moments, it stands perfectly still. Then, slowly – so slowly – it begins to rise. My heart is pounding, and my head is starting to spin. This is real. This is happening. In a few seconds, we'll be in the arena.

I'm not ready for this.

* * *

 **Isabel Linden, 34  
** **Mother of Phoebe Linden**

I'm not ready for this. How could anyone be? How could any mother be prepared to see their child in the arena? How could anyone be expected to be ready to watch their daughter fight for her life? All across Panem, I know, other mothers are wondering the same thing. Mothers and fathers, waiting, watching, hoping their son or daughter will be the one to return. I pull the boys – Mitchell and Bernard – closer, holding them tight as Isaiah wraps an arm around my shoulders. At least we still have each other. None of us will have to go through this alone.

But that doesn't make it any easier to watch. Doesn't make it any better. The screen switches abruptly from Noelle's face to the arena – or, at least, what we can see of it. The ground is rough and rocky. There don't seem to be any plants, but the cameras could simply be avoiding them. They're focused on the tributes – and on a counter in the corner, set to sixty.

"Tributes, do _not_ step off your pedestals until the gong sounds!" This year, they all know better than to disobey. We all remember what happened to the boy from Four last year. No one is going to make the same mistake. All the tributes stand perfectly still as the voice begins to count down.

" _Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight…"_


	20. Stay Alive

**Stay Alive**

" _Look at where you are. Look at where you started. The fact that you're alive is a miracle. Just stay alive – that would be enough."_

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

 _Well, shit._ That's the first thought that comes to my head. Not because of the arena. From what I can see, we're on some sort of plateau, with a pile of supplies in the middle of the circle of tributes. No, the problem is that the other tribute I need to keep track of – Elinor – is on almost the complete opposite side of that circle.

I wasn't expecting that. I was assuming they'd arrange us like last year – District One next to District Two next to District Three and so on. I was assuming Elinor and I would be next to each other – and that we'd be able to get away quickly from the other tributes. But now … either I'm going to have to make it across the plateau to reach me … or she'll have to.

 _Breathe. Just breathe._ I finally tear my eyes away from the other side of the pile and glance around. We're at the top of a hill. Maybe more of a mountain. The top is flat, but almost immediately behind us, it begins to slope down – not too steep, but pretty rocky. I can see some trees farther down, blocking whatever might be below them from view.

Elinor is looking around, too. Finally, I catch her eye. She points in my direction. She wants to run _this_ way? Why? Maybe the slope behind her is steeper. Maybe she thinks she has a better chance of making it across the plateau unharmed. Either way, I'm not exactly going to argue. I nod as the voice continues to count down.

 _Fifty-four. Fifty-three. Fifty-two._

* * *

 **Jon Park, 52  
** **Father of Jae Park**

It seems like Jae and Elinor have figured out which way they want to go. And, from what little we can see of the arena, I think they made the right choice. The slope of the mountain on Elinor's side looks a lot steeper than Jae's side. Problem is, most of the other tributes will probably realize the same thing and run that way, too.

At least, the ones who plan on running will. From the way some of them are eyeing the weapons in the center of the circle, not all of them plan on running right away. Last year, there were only a few who charged in at the start. This year, though, I have a feeling there will be more – and not just because of the weapons. Along with the swords, daggers, axes, and other assorted blades, I can see some food. Loaves of bread, pieces of fruit, bottles of water. And there are three or four backpacks at the center of the circle that could contain anything.

I lean back a little on the couch. The Gamemakers aren't doing this to be kind. If they wanted the tributes to have food, they could provide an arena full of it. No, the food isn't there to keep them alive – it's there to get them killed. They're assuming that if they put food in the center along with the weapons, more of the tributes will rush in at the start.

And, from the look of it, they're right. Even the younger tributes seem to be eyeing the food on the edges of the pile – wondering, maybe, if they'd have time to rush in, grab some, and _then_ run away. They remember what happened last year – how some of the tributes had to scavenge for snake eggs and eat cactus in order to survive. If they can get a little food now, it might last a while – but only if they manage to survive.

 _Fifty-one. Fifty. Forty-nine._

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

Things are already different than they were last year. Last year, there were only weapons in the center at the start of the Games. Jethro and I weren't planning to rush in and grab anything. But now that we know there's food … well, that changes things – doesn't it?

Maybe. Maybe not. I glance over at Jethro, who's seven places to my right. He shakes his head, gesturing towards the slope behind us. He still wants to run. And maybe he has a point. We can always come back later. Last year, tributes snuck back to the center of the arena to get weapons hours or even days after the start of the Games. There's no reason the two of us can't do the same thing. There seems to be plenty of food.

Okay. Okay, so running it is. We'll have to be careful. There are plenty of rocks along the slope leading down, even though it isn't that steep. There are trees farther down the slope – what might be beyond them isn't clear. I glance back at Jethro, and he flashes me a smile. What is he thinking? Does he have some sort of plan?

If he does, he's certainly not sharing it. Obviously, he can't say anything with so many tributes standing between us, but it would be nice if he could at least give me a clue. Or maybe he doesn't have a plan after all. Maybe he's just smiling because … well, because he's scared. Maybe he's trying to look brave for the cameras. Maybe it's all just a show. Or maybe he's just nuts. Either way, he's the only partner I've got, so I'll just have to trust him.

 _Forty-eight. Forty-seven. Forty-six._

* * *

 **Robbie Mills, 9  
** **Brother of Mel Mills**

It looks like they're planning to run. That's good. I don't want them to get hurt – not this soon. And I don't want Mel to get hurt at all, of course. So the sooner they get away from the other tributes, the better. I just hope no one comes after them. Not that anyone would really have a reason to. Mel's always been nice. But people in the Games … well, they don't always have to have a reason.

I only watched a little of the Games last year. But this year … well, mother didn't want me to, but I told her I didn't want to have to find out what happened to Mel from the other kids at school. That worked. I don't want her to die, of course, but if she does … well, I'd rather see it for myself, I guess, than hear about it from my friends.

So we're watching the screen together – mother and I – as the clock continues to count down. "It's okay," mother whispers. "It'll be okay."

It won't. No matter what happens in the next few minutes, it's not going to be okay. Things will never be 'okay' again. Even if Mel makes it through the Games – even if she wins – things will never go back to the way they were. Too much has changed. Too many people have changed. If she makes it out of the Games, she'll be different. She won't be the same sister who went into the arena. But as long as she makes it back … that's good enough for me.

 _Forty-five. Forty-four. Forty-three._

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

Not quite what I was expecting, but it's good enough for me. Julian is only three tributes to my left. Ra is right next to me, but that shouldn't be much of a problem. He's too busy eyeing the weapons in the center to even think about coming after me. Makes sense, I guess. If I had a group of five and a training score of eight, I might think about going for the weapons, too. As it is, Julian and I will be running … downhill … with a bunch of rocks.

 _Shit._ "Julian!" I call, and he turns. "We're at the top of a hill. It slopes down behind you. Don't step backwards. I'm coming to help you – I'm real close by. Just hang tight."

He nods. I'll just have to hope he listens – that he doesn't try to run too quickly. And that no one tries to come after him. Ra is directly to my left, and then the girl from Three. Both of them have allies they'll probably try to group up with or weapons they'll try to grab. On Julian's left is the girl from Twelve – she's working with Ra, so she'll probably go for the weapons – and then the boy from Four. He's motioning to his partner – the girl from Nine. It looks like they're running, too, but the girl is still looking hungrily at the food in the center.

I have to admit, it's tempting. I might be able to grab something and still make it to Julian in time. But then what? We're not going to be able to run as fast as the others – not downhill, with all those rocks. Once the groups who are going to grab weapons are armed, they could come after us. No, the more distance we put between us and them, the better. Everything else can wait.

 _Forty-two. Forty-one. Forty._

* * *

 **Murphy Lennox, 18  
** **Friend of Charlotte Jacquard**

I really thought she had more sense than that. It's obvious from the way Charlotte is talking to Julian that they're working together. And, sure, I feel sorry for the kid, too, but what the hell made her think that teaming up with a blind boy was a good idea? What did he offer her? Did she just feel sorry for him? Is she working with a bunch of twelve-year-olds, too?

Okay. Okay, it's her choice. There's no reason I should care this much. Sure, we're friends, but it's not as if we're family. Not as if she _has_ any family. Maybe she's decided she doesn't have a chance and just wants to spend her last few days with someone who's actually nice, someone who will actually trust her. That doesn't really seem like Charlotte, but, once I really think about it, how well do I know her? We're just a couple of street urchins. It's not as if we sit around all day and talk about our feelings.

I shouldn't care. I shouldn't care that she's probably going to get herself killed. After all, twenty-three of them are going to die. Most of them actually _have_ families. Isn't that sadder? The ones who are actually leaving brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, behind? It should be.

But for me … no. Because I don't know them. Not like I know Charlotte. Maybe we're not all that close, but I'll remember her. I'll remember her face, her voice, the way she was always willing to share scraps with me if she happened to find more than I did – and the way I was happy to do the same in return. Maybe it's not much, but it's all we had. It's all we could be expected to do.

 _Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven._

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

I'm not quite sure what the others are expecting me to do. We're pretty spread out across the circle around the pile of weapons and supplies. Apollo is four tributes to my left, but the others are on the other side of the circle altogether. Ada is almost directly across from me. Bentley is three places to her left, Phoebe two to her right. So that means there are more of them – more of _us_ – on the other side. Does that mean it's my job to cross the circle and join them, instead of the other way around?

Maybe. I finally catch Ada's eye, and gesture to the terrain behind her, hoping for some clue of what lies down that slope. Behind me … well, it doesn't look so bad. The slope is rocky, but not too steep, and I can see trees farther down. But a lot of other tributes look like they're ready to run that way, too. Do we want to run the same way as everyone else?

Ada shakes her head. _No._ No what? No, she doesn't want me to come join her? Or no, she doesn't want to be the one to cross the circle? She glances at Bentley, then at Phoebe – maybe trying to figure out if they'd make it across. She shakes her head again, then gestures to the slope behind her. Then a waving motion that clearly means _come this way._

Okay. That way it is. I glance over at Apollo, who nods. Which way we go, or whose side of the circle we end up on – that's not terribly important. What's important is that we stick together, and that we all make it through the next few minutes alive. I take a deep breath as the numbers continue to count down. Apollo is a little closer to the other side than I am. I'll be running the farthest to get to the others. And maybe I'm the best-equipped to do that, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous.

 _Thirty-six. Thirty-five. Thirty-four._

* * *

 **Trystane Tunell, 19  
** **Cousin of Darrin Tunell**

I'm not quite sure what the girl is thinking, telling the others to run in her direction. The slope on her side is steeper, but I suppose that could be a good thing. Maybe she figures that means the others won't want to go that way. Or maybe she was simply scared to run across the circle herself, and figured that Darrin would have a better chance of making it across alive. Maybe … well, maybe she wasn't really thinking at all. If I only had a few seconds to make that sort of decision, I don't know how rational I'd be about it, either.

I just hope she's right about Darrin being able to make it across. From the look of it, there's quite a large group of them working together. If they manage to meet up, they should be safe – I know I wouldn't want to attack a group that large. The main thing, I suppose, is getting all of them together. _Then_ they can worry about where to go.

Still, that's not the direction I would have chosen to run. It's steeper. Rockier. And I can't see any trees. Maybe the cameras are simply hiding them, or maybe once they group up, they can figure out which way to go from there. I drum my fingers on my leg. Only a little longer. Only a little more than half a minute…

I shouldn't be this anxious. But, now that the Games have practically begun, there's a part of me that just wants this to get started – so we can get it over with. The sooner the Games begin, the sooner they can end. And the sooner they end, the sooner we might get Darrin back. If he makes it back. If not … well, maybe it's better if that happens sooner, too. Maybe that would be less painful.

 _Thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-one._

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

There's a part of me that wishes the gong would just sound already. Half a minute. We still have thirty seconds left before the Games start. No one is stupid enough, of course, to step off their pedestals early this year. We know better. But that doesn't stop me from wishing that the clock would count down a little faster.

I already know what I'm going to do. Most of my allies aren't nearby. Ivone is two places to my right, Ra three to _her_ right. Isaac and Hannah are on the other side of the circle. But that's not terribly important. We'll all be rushing towards the center, anyway – we can meet up there. And the fact that there's food in the middle, rather than simply the weapons I was expecting … well, that's a nice extra perk. But it doesn't change what we were already planning to do.

There's a small axe on the pile near me – or, at least, as near as any of the supplies are. Just beyond that is a spear. If I can get to either of those, I'll be in a good position. Hopefully, the others will have the sense – and the guts – to do the same. Hannah I'm certain of. She won't hesitate. But the others … I'm not entirely sure.

I guess we'll find out. Guess we'll _all_ find out. After all, who would have thought that most of the tributes last year had it in them to kill? But kill they did, when their lives were on the line. It's just a matter of how long it takes for it to sink in – that, even if no one else has made a move yet, their lives _are_ on the line. All of our lives are. Whether we make the first move or whether someone else does … maybe that doesn't really matter.

 _Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._

* * *

 **Leroy Greggory, 22  
** **Brother of Jayda Greggory**

There's still a part of me that wishes she hadn't decided to go through with it. Hadn't decided to volunteer. This was her last year. Her last reaping. She could have been safe. She could be sitting here with us now – father, me, our little sister Aria, my fiance Tamara. I moved out of the house a while ago to move in with Tamara, but we came back for the Games. If the worst happens, I don't want my father and Aria to have to go through that alone.

If the worst happens. I hope it won't. And I do believe that Jayda has a chance. But believing she has a chance and knowing she's going to be the one coming home are two very different things. When it comes down to it, none of us know for sure what's going to happen. We know there will be blood. We know twenty-three tributes will die. But, no matter how certain some people may seem, no one knows for sure who's going to survive, and who will die.

I can't tear my eyes away from the screen as the timer continues to count down. She didn't have to do this. Sure, things are a bit tense right now. Anyone with rebel connections is under suspicion. But after a few years of peace – and I have no doubt there _will_ be years of peace – people will start to relax again. Start to trust again. All she had to do was wait.

Still, I can't help but wonder … Would I have done the same thing? Twenty-two-year-old me? No. But a few years ago? Eighteen-year-old me might have done the same thing my little sister is doing now. I might have been just as determined to regain our family's honor. Just as willing to risk my life if I thought it would help the rest of the family. I might have done exactly the same thing. But that doesn't make this any easier.

 _Twenty-seven. Twenty-six. Twenty-five._

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

They just couldn't make this easy on us, could they. Atleigh is on the _complete_ opposite side of the circle, and doesn't seem particularly interested in waiting for me to get across before running. That's okay. I'll catch up. Or maybe he'll decide to run in and try to get some food. Or maybe he thinks I can grab some as I run across. Maybe I can. Or maybe it would be safer to go around.

Either way, it's pretty clear _I'm_ going to be the one crossing the circle. I'm older. Stronger. Faster. But that doesn't make the ring of other tributes any less intimidating. Maybe I can simply cut to one side or the other, avoid the rush to the center. It might mean I meet up with Atleigh a little later than if I run straight across, but I've also got a better chance of making it there alive.

And that's the important thing. We have time. And we can always come back for supplies later, after all the excitement has died down. Get it? _Died_ down? Because people are about to … shit, people are about to die. _Actually_ die. No matter how hard I try, that isn't funny. And, worst of all, there's nothing I can do about it – nothing except try to make sure I'm one of the ones who survives the initial fight.

The rest can wait. The strategy and the food and the weapons. All that matters now is staying alive. I wave at Atleigh from across the circle, point to myself, and then motion in his direction. _Go ahead and run. I'll meet you._ I hope I'll be able to. I hope we both survive this.

 _Twenty-four. Twenty-three. Twenty-two._

* * *

 **Tania Therald, 12  
** **Sister of Rick Therald**

I hope I'm not the reason my brother decided to team up with a twelve-year-old. Even if he hadn't made it clear last night during the interviews that he and Atleigh are working together, the way they're gesturing to each other across the circle would have given it away. It doesn't make any sense to try to hide it, I guess. The tributes can probably figure out during training which of them are working with which of the others. So there's really no reason to try to keep it a secret.

Still, there's something about it that feels … off. Maybe he chose a twelve-year-old because he wanted to work with someone like me. But if _I_ were in the Games right now, I'd want to find someone older who could help me. Someone who could protect me. Someone I could trust for a while and then … well, leave, I guess. I wouldn't want to kill them, of course, but, eventually, they'd have to die. And in order for Rick to win, Atleigh has to die. And I don't think he'd be ready for that.

But that's a long way away. Atleigh doesn't have to die yet. I can still hope for both of them to survive the next few hours. The next few days. Who knows? Maybe teaming up with a twelve-year-old will mean the other tributes won't want to attack him. Would _I_ want to attack a kid who was four or five years younger than me?

No. Of course, I wouldn't really want to _attack_ anyone. And, try as I might, I can't picture Rick attacking anyone, either. If someone attacked him first, he'd probably fight back – who wouldn't? – but I can't see him making the first move. But maybe that doesn't matter. After all, how often did last year's Victor make the first move? And he still came out alive. Sure, he fought, but he also got lucky. And maybe Rick can get lucky, too.

 _Twenty-one. Twenty. Nineteen._

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

We got lucky. _Really_ lucky. Jim is directly to my right, Mantle directly to my left. We couldn't have asked for a more perfect arrangement if we'd picked the order ourselves. A few tributes from the larger alliances are nearby. The girl from Ten is directly to Jim's right. Next to her is the boy from Five, and the girl from Eleven is to Mantle's left. His district partner. As much as we might want to take out a tribute or two from the larger alliances, I doubt he'll go after her. Not when there are better options.

I clench my fists as the numbers continue to count down. This is it. It's real now. The next few minutes will decide whether our plan succeeds or fails. Whether we'll start the Games at an advantage, whether we've bitten off more than we can chew and will have to abandon the plan, or whether … well, or whether we'll be dead. And, if nothing else, I guess if we're dead we won't have to worry about it anymore.

But that's not what I want. If I wanted to die, after all, I could simply step off my pedestal right now. No one would stop me. I would be blown to bits before I had a chance to feel anything. It would probably be quicker than any other death I could hope for in the Games. But I don't. I stand perfectly still as the numbers continue to tick off. Because the simple truth is I don't want to die. And there's still a part of me that believes I might make it out of this alive.

But first I have to get through today. First, I have to get through the next few hours. The next few minutes. I glance over at Jim, who beams back, then at Mantle, who's scowling. We all know what we have to do. Now it's just a matter of whether or not we'll have the guts to actually do it.

 _Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen._

* * *

 **Annitha Blair, 49  
** **Mother of Lacey Blair**

I can't help wondering what Lacey is planning. From the way she's been glancing at the boys on her left and right, they might be working together, but I can't really be sure. She could just as easily be worried that they're about to attack her. I'd certainly be worried, too – the pair of them got a nine and a seven during training. Sure, she got an eight, but that might give them even more of a reason to attack her, if they're not working together. Eliminate the stronger opponent.

Opponent. I never thought I'd be thinking of other children that way – as Lacey's opponents in a fight to the death. Clyde and I did our best to stay out of the rebellion for exactly that reason. We were trying to protect her. The idea that we could still be punished for something that the rebels did was unthinkable.

It was unthinkable last year. It was shocking and cruel and horrifying. Now … now it's even worse, because it's my daughter. In a few seconds, she'll be fighting for her life because of what the rebels did, and because of what the Capitol did in return, targeting rebels, loyalists, and those who tried to remain neutral, all in one fell swoop. It's not fair. But no one's going to be stupid enough to stand up and tell them so – not after what happened to the rebellion. Not after what happened to the rebels in the Games last year.

Certainly Lacey won't try anything of the sort. Clyde and I didn't raise a fool. She knows that, as horrible as it is, she's going to have to cooperate in order to survive. She's going to have to play by their rules. She's going to have to fight, and, from the way she's eyeing the pile of weapons and supplies, she's ready to do just that. But I wonder how many of the other tributes are already just as willing to fight back.

 _Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen._

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

I wonder how many of the other tributes are also planning on rushing in for weapons. The girl from Six is to my left, but, from the way she's been gesturing across the circle to her district partner, she's just planning to run across to meet up with him. I doubt she wants to be part of the fighting. And the girl on my right – the girl from Five – is apparently planning to stay put while her allies meet up with her. And maybe that makes sense – there are more of them on this side – but the slope behind us is also pretty steep.

 _Not your problem,_ Z reminds me as the seconds continue to tick down. After all, we're not planning on running. Getting weapons was always the plan. It's what we decide to do afterwards that wasn't quite as clear, because we have no way of knowing who else will still be here to fight and who will be running away.

Part of me wishes _I_ was running away. It would certainly be safer. I could probably get away, too. Who would want to come after me? I could probably meet up with the rest of my group later. But what would they think? If they knew I'm afraid to fight, would they still want me in their group? Or would they kick me out? Or, worse, would they kill me themselves?

I don't think Ivone would. But if the others wanted to, would she be able to stop them? Would she even try? Why would she risk her neck for me? No, if I want to stay with my allies, I need to fight now. It's as simple as that. I just … well, I wish it wasn't.

 _Twelve. Eleven. Ten._

* * *

 **Chase Valour, 16  
** **Boyfriend of Isaac Swarthy**

 _Stay alive._ That's the only thing I care about right now – whether or not Isaac survives the next few minutes. Of course, I want him to survive the rest of the Games, too, but these next few minutes – they're crucial. He looks like he's trying to decide whether to run or fight. I wish … well, if I'm being honest, I wish he would run. Wish he would stay safe. But is that the right choice – or even the safest choice – in the long run?

But if he dies now – if he charges into a fight he's not ready for and gets killed – then there _is_ no long run. I pace the room, still watching the screen. I don't know what I would do if I were in his place. To be honest … I'm just glad I'm not _in_ his place. Glad I wasn't the one chosen for the Games. I don't know if I would be able to do it.

But what does that say about Isaac? Because even though I wish he would run, there's a part of me that knows he's capable of fighting. A part that knows that, when it comes down to it, he'll fight. He'll kill. Because he has to – and he knows that. Not that he would ever _want_ to do it, but he will. I already know that, even if he doesn't. He wants to come home. And nothing is going to keep him from trying to make it back.

I finally take a seat as the timer continues to count. Every other tribute is trying to do the same thing. Trying to come home to their own families, their own loved ones. They have people they care about, too. And people who care for _them_. What makes Isaac's life any more important than theirs? What makes me any more important than their families? What makes us any different?

 _Nine. Eight. Seven._

* * *

 **Noelle Hale  
** **Hunger Games Host**

 _Six._ I don't think anyone is even watching me anymore. They're all focused on the screens. On the tributes who are about to be fighting for their lives. And that's okay. I'm not the star here. That's not my job. My job is to make _them_ the stars, to keep the Capitol interested in them. And that's exactly what I plan to do.

 _Five._ I steal a glance at my father in the audience. My mother is off with her fellow Gamemakers, ready to trigger the tributes' pedestals if one of them happens to step off early. I don't think anyone is going to make the same mistake this year. Besides, if they were going to, surely they would have done so by now.

 _Four._ All of the tributes are tense, ready to run – some of them towards the pile of weapons and supplies, some of them away from it. I can't help wondering which group I would be in, if I was in their place. Not that I'm likely to ever _be_ in their place, but it's still worth thinking about. I doubt there's anyone who watched the Games last year _without_ putting themselves in the tributes' shoes, at least for a little while.

 _Three._ And that's part of the fun – imagining what we would do in their position, without any of the risk of actually _being_ in their place. We get all the excitement, but none of the terror. And the tributes in the arena … well, they probably don't see any of the excitement. Even the one who survives isn't likely to look back on the Games with fondness. I doubt Maverick does.

 _Two._ But he volunteered. And some of these tributes did, as well. Some of them recognized the Games for the opportunity that they are. And the rest? Well, it's okay if they don't see it right now. I don't know that I'd be overflowing with gratitude for the opportunity if I was in their place. But most of them are willing to do what has to be done. They have to be. The Games hinge on that idea, and that idea alone: that, when it comes down to it, ordinary people – even ordinary children – are willing to do terrible things, _unspeakable_ things, just to stay alive.

 _One._

* * *

 **We're so excited! There's a map of the cornucopia up on the blog to give you some idea of where everyone is. The colors don't really mean anything - just a way to keep track of who's in which alliance. We'll put up a map of the rest of the arena next chapter.**

 **Also, last chance to vote in the sponsor poll if you haven't yet. A new poll will be up next chapter.**


	21. Death

**Death**

" _Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes, and we keep living anyway."_

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 18  
** **District Ten**

I can see it coming before the gong even sounds. This wasn't an accident – placing me next to a group of three high-scoring tributes … and a good distance away from any of my allies. I can't outrun them. I can't fight three of them – not without some sort of weapon. But I have no choice but to try one of those things.

 _Three. Two. One._ As soon as the gong sounds, I make my choice. The oldest of the bunch – the boy from Nine – lunges towards me, hoping to catch me by surprise. No such luck. I manage to dodge him, and then the girl from Eight. But, by then, the boy from Eleven has reached us. He dives for my legs, and I don't have time to dodge before his arms are wrapped around my knees, dragging me to the ground.

I kick. I struggle. I even manage to land a punch squarely on the boy's nose. But he holds on, gripping my legs tightly as the other boy kicks me in the stomach. Once. Twice. The third time, I manage to squirm out of the way, and he accidentally kicks the other boy, instead. The boy lets out a shout – more surprised than hurt – but still doesn't let go.

* * *

 **Mantle Grimes, 15  
** **District Eleven**

I can't let go. That much was obvious the moment I grabbed the girl's legs. If I let go, she has a chance to gain the upper hand. If I hold on…

She rolls. I roll with her. Perfectly in time. Never losing my grip. Jim kicks again, but it's obvious he's hesitant. Reluctant to deal what might be a fatal blow. If we could trade places, I wouldn't hesitate. Not for a second. But we can't. I have to hold on.

And we can't stay here forever. Eventually, someone will notice us fighting and decide that one of us would be an easy target.

Suddenly, a sharp pain in my back confirms my fears. Someone _did_ notice. Blood. I can feel it dripping down my shirt. A familiar sensation. But this … this is different. Whoever stabbed me knew exactly where to hit.

I catch a look of surprise on Jim's face as I glance up. It's too late. Too late for him to do anything but yank the knife out of my back. Which he does. Stupid. That'll only make me bleed faster. Everything is going dark. But it almost feels … good. Peaceful.

More peaceful than anything else in my life, certainly. I didn't expect it to be over this soon, but … well, maybe that's for the best. I just hope my family…

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I wasn't close enough to do anything but throw the knife and hope. I got lucky. Luckier than I expected. The boy's body slumps over on top of Hannah. I quickly grab a more suitable weapon – a long-handled axe in a nearby pile – and glance around for my allies. My _other_ allies. Hannah isn't my concern. I don't even know whether the cannon that sounds is hers or the boy's. Whichever of them isn't dead will be joining the other soon enough.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the boy from Nine still holding the knife. Deciding. He's taking too long. I start running towards him. Closer. Maybe I can take him out, too, before he has the sense to run, like the girl from Eight is already doing. But, just as I'm getting close enough, he makes his choice, reaching down quickly to slit Hannah's throat before taking off with his ally.

A second cannon sounds, and I briefly consider following him. But only briefly. He's too far away already, and I won't get that lucky with a knife again. I'd only be providing him with more weapons. He's already gotten a knife out of the deal. I'm not about to give him anything else.

Besides, he probably just did me a favor. Hannah would have turned on me eventually. It was only a matter of time. Only a matter of how long it took for me to let my guard down. This way … well, that's one less thing to worry about. I wasn't going to kill her myself – not this soon, at least – but I was under no obligation to save her.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

The slope is steep and rocky, and I quickly catch up to Lacey, who's obviously not used to this sort of terrain. Not that I am. Most of District Nine is pretty flat. But at least it's flat _ground_ in Nine, rather than the paved sidewalks of the factory districts. Still, it's slow going, but at least no one seems to be chasing us.

Us. Lacey and me. Because Mantle … Mantle is dead. Dead, just like my little sister – and I was just as powerless to do anything as I was on the day I lost her. The day my father killed her. There was nothing I could do for Vivian. And nothing I can do now for Mantle. They're both dead.

But we're still alive – Lacey and me. And I have a weapon. Sure, it's just a knife, but that's enough for now. Other tributes, even if they run this way, are less likely to attack us if they can see that we're armed. Even if that's the only benefit of having this knife – a knife that already has blood on it – that's good enough for me.

And if they saw that I already used it – that I already killed … well, all the better. That'll make them even less likely to attack. I killed. Those two words still sound wrong together. I killed the girl from Ten. I should have killed her _sooner_. If I had, Mantle might…

No. No, the girl from Two would still have thrown the knife. If not to try to save her ally, then to avenge her. Mantle would still be dead. I would still be alive. Nothing would have changed.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

I saw everything. The girl from Ten. The boy from Eleven. The blood. I was running around the outside of the circle – Darrin rushed towards me as soon as the gong sounded. I kept my distance. That's the only reason I wasn't in the way when the girl from Two threw the knife.

I'm gasping for breath by the time Darrin and I reach the others, but I can't afford to stop. We rush towards the edge of the plateau, only to be greeted by a fairly steep slope, rocky and barren. At the bottom, I can see some plants. Some shrubs. "Down there?" I call to Ada, but she's already descending the slope. Already eager to get away from the fighting.

She was the one, after all, who told us to come this way. Does she see something down there that I don't? Or was she just hoping she wouldn't have to race across the plateau? I'm not sure, but I do know that we need to get moving. Darrin, Bentley, Phoebe, and I quickly follow her down the slope.

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

The slope is a bit steeper than I thought, but we don't exactly have any other options. As soon as he's within reach, I grab Julian's hand. He jumps, but, after realizing that it's me, turns to run in the direction I'm leading him.

Well, 'run' is being generous. It's more of a brisk walk, and he stumbles on a rock every now and then, but he manages to keep moving. And, even better, no one seems interested in following us. They all have better things to do.

"There are trees in the distance," I explain. "Once we get there, we'll stop for a little while."

Julian nods, but doesn't say anything. He's probably trying to focus on not tripping over the rocky ground. He grips my hand tightly as we keep pressing forward, the sounds of the fighting dying down behind us. At last, he gives my hand a squeeze. "Thank you, Charlotte."

* * *

 **Lexi Concord, 15  
** **District Four**

Dina and I race towards each other across the plateau. She's focused only on getting to me. But me? I have to admit it's tempting to try to grab something. A bit of food, a weapon – maybe even one of those backpacks towards the center. I'm pretty fast. I could probably make it…

Almost before I realize what I'm doing, my legs are carrying me forward. I can grab something. Some food, at least. That way, we won't have to worry about finding food for a while. No one's going to come after me. They're all going after the other tributes who are reaching for weapons. Let them fight each other. I can—

Just as my hand closes around a loaf of bread, however, there's a sudden pain in my chest. Then I see the blade – and the girl. The girl from Twelve, who quickly pulls her dagger out of my chest, letting the blood flow freely as I sink to the ground. Everything's getting blurry, but I think I see Dina running away. Good. That's good. Maybe…

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

She's dead. The girl from Four. It takes me a moment to register that the cannon is hers. That I just … I just _killed_ someone. I thought … well, I thought she would put up more of a fight. But how could she have? She didn't have a weapon. She had a loaf of bread. I take a step back, so distracted that I don't even notice the boy racing by me with a backpack. The little boy from Eight. He must have rushed in while I was focused on the girl from Four.

That's okay. He can go. I wouldn't be able to catch him now, anyway. Besides, I already did what I wanted. I got the lowest score in our group during training, which meant I would have to prove myself once the Games actually started. And I have. I've proven to them – all of them – that I can kill.

And I've proven it to myself.

It doesn't feel like I thought it would, though. I thought there would be at least some sense of … I don't know. Satisfaction, maybe. Like the feeling I always got when Ramsey and I pulled off one of our smuggling deals. But this … this is different. There was nothing in it for me – nothing except the knowledge that one more tribute is dead. I'm one step closer to going home. And maybe … well, maybe that's enough.

* * *

 **Atleigh Chaplin, 12  
** **District Eight**

Whatever's in this bag will have to be enough, because I'm _not_ going back up there. I clutch the backpack tightly as I run. Away from the fighting. The blood. Away from the girl from Four who was killed right in front of me. Away from the girl from Twelve who killed her.

I hope Rick is somewhere behind me. I don't dare look back. Not yet. If he's there, he's there. If not, I'll meet up with him sooner or later. Getting away quickly is more important. If he has any sense, he'll do the same – worry about getting away first, and finding me later.

Okay. Okay, breathe. Just breathe. No one's coming after me. They don't have any reason to. Sure, I grabbed a backpack, but there are plenty more where it came from. Whoever's left at the top will have plenty of supplies for the rest of the Games. But whatever's up there, it's not worth getting killed for.

I wouldn't have rushed in at all, except for the fact that I was next to the girl from Four. Lexi. I figured people might go after her, instead, given what the interviewer revealed about her father. Even if she tried to distance herself from him, the fact remains that most of the loyalists would consider her a target. Besides, she was older than me, which made her a more tempting target to begin with. No one cares about a little twelve-year-old running away from a fight. No one was going to chase me. And that's what I was counting on.

* * *

 **Elinor Siesto, 18  
** **District Six**

Jae is counting on me to make it across the plateau, so I might as well grab something useful while I'm at it. Off to my right, I can see the girl from Ten struggling with the boys from Nine and Eleven. I swerve the other way, instead, heading for the center even as the first cannon sounds. The second quickly follows it.

I scoop up a short sword as I weave my way through the pile of weapons. It's not heavy, but hopefully it'll be enough to keep anyone from thinking I'm an easy target. Now I just have to get to Jae. A third cannon sounds – whose, I don't know. I sling a backpack over my back and race towards the other side of the circle. Maybe there's some food inside. Maybe not. I can't afford to waste any time being picky.

But before I even make it much past the center, a blade comes slicing towards me. I manage to duck away from the axe, but the girl from Two swings again, this time catching the side of my backpack. Supplies start to spill out – what, exactly, I can't stop to find out. I duck beneath her next blow, but she steps to the right, positioning herself between me and Jae.

He's already running. Useless. Then again, he doesn't have a weapon. And he has no real reason to risk his life for me. I grit my teeth and swing my own weapon. The other girl dodges easily, then swings again, her axe narrowly missing my chest.

But something else finds it. I was so focused on her, I didn't even see the spear. The spear that stabs deep into my stomach from a safe distance. Pain shoots up from my gut as I turn in time to see the boy from One, a satisfied smile creeping across his face as I slump to the ground. He takes a step closer. But only one – as if he doesn't want to risk getting too close.

Or maybe he simply knows he doesn't have to. He yanks the spear from my stomach and, in one quick thrust, sinks it deep into my neck. Blood. Wet and warm and sticky. It's all I can feel. All I can see. The last thing I'll ever see.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

The cannon sounds, and Jayda nods. "Good job," she concedes. Of course, she was the one who distracted the girl long enough for me to strike a fatal blow. Still, there's a certain sense of … accomplishment in having been the one to actually finish her off.

But I can't afford to get too far ahead of myself. There's still plenty of competition. Most of the other tributes have fled, leaving only our alliance at the top of the plateau – along with four dead bodies. "Should we go after some of the others?" Isaac asks, a machete in his hand – unbloodied. I saw Jayda throw a knife at the boy from Eleven earlier, and even Ivone's dagger has blood on it. Maybe he's eager to prove himself, after seeing that we've each managed a kill.

But Jayda shakes her head. "They're too far away – and we don't want to give them the opportunity to sneak back here and get weapons before we've had a chance to go through the supplies."

She's got the right idea – that much is clear. There's no point in competing so hard to earn our place at the top of the plateau if we aren't going to stake out our claim to the supplies before proceeding with the rest of our plan. Ivone nods quickly – a little too quickly. From the look of it, she killed the girl from Four. Maybe that's rattled her a bit. She certainly doesn't seem to be injured. In fact, aside from Hannah, none of us have so much as a scratch.

And Hannah … well, to be honest, I would have preferred to keep her around a little longer. She and Jayda might eventually have turned on each other, ridding me of two problems at once. Now I'll just have to be all the more careful of Jayda, because now if she decides to turn on someone, it might be me.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

I should be relieved. Relieved that I didn't have to fight. Relieved that I'm alive. That I made it through the first few minutes of the Games – even though it feels like much, much longer – without a scratch. But, glancing around at my allies, I can't help but wonder if I'm already at a disadvantage, despite being perfectly unharmed. There are four bodies strewn around the circle – one of my allies, and three others. The ones my allies killed. Three. One each.

And what did I accomplish? Nothing of note. I grabbed a weapon, but, by the time I had turned around to use it, all the tributes were gone, leaving only Ra, Jayda, Ivone, and me inside the circle. It all happened so fast. What was I supposed to do?

Maybe I should have gone after someone – chased after them regardless of what Jayda said. But it's too late now. Too late to start second-guessing myself. I quickly get to work helping the others sort through the supplies. _Our_ supplies. But I can't shake the feeling that this was all a little too easy.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I thought it would be easier for her to make it across the circle. Sure, we got the same training score, but that doesn't change the fact that Elinor was bigger than me. Physically stronger than me. I didn't get a seven from the Gamemakers because they thought I'd be good in an actual _fight._ I figured – and so did she, I assume, since she was the one who insisted – that she would have a better chance of making it through the circle alive.

I was wrong. Maybe. Of course, I might have been dead if I'd tried, too. Maybe we should have gone around. Split up and agreed to meet each other later. I shake my head as I run. There's no point in worrying about that now. No point in wondering what might have happened. It didn't. I ran. She ran. I made it. She didn't. That's all there is to it.

At least, I _want_ to believe that's all there is to it. That she simply got unlucky. The truth is, she chose to try to make it across the circle … so that I wouldn't have to. She could have asked me to run across and find her. But she didn't. And that … well, if I'm being honest, that probably saved my life.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

Not having any allies probably saved my life. Before the gong sounded, I could see people motioning across the circle to their allies – either trying to get them to be the one to cross or offering to do it themselves. I hope Bentley had the sense not to run across. But I can't afford to worry about him right now – or any of the others. I have to focus on getting myself to safety.

I didn't grab anything from the circle. I didn't have time. I just ran – straight away from the plateau, towards the treeline. A little to my left, I can see the little girl from Nine meeting up with the boy from Four, and, together, they rush away from the fighting – and me. I wonder if Bentley managed to find his allies—

 _Stop it._ I can't keep wondering how Bentley's doing – not if I want to win this thing. Bentley may be my district partner, and he may only be thirteen, but he's competition now – the same as any of the others. And he might be dead, anyway – there have been four cannons so far. Maybe one of them was his. Maybe not. I'm just glad none of them were mine.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I'm just glad none of those cannons were mine. Ada, Apollo, Darrin, Phoebe, and I race down the slope as fast as we dare, but, for the moment, at least, we seem to be out of danger. There have been four cannons so far, but all the fighting seems to be taking place back at the top of the hill. I guess their plan to draw in more tributes by putting food in the center worked.

Maybe. There were four cannons at the start last year, after all. Four tributes who died pretty quickly after the Games began. Four last time. Four this time. Maybe things aren't so different, after all.

Ada, who's in the lead, stops short as the path starts to get steeper. Much steeper. We aren't going to be able to keep running down this slope. "Are you sure you want to go this way?" Apollo asks.

It's an innocent enough question, but Ada's face immediately turns red. "I don't know! I just wanted to get away from the fighting. I thought – I mean, you all just started following me. Which way do _you_ want to go? Back up there?"

Darrin shakes his head, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. "Okay. It's okay. Take a deep breath. It's okay. We're all okay. We're still alive."

Ada nods, but she's still shaking. "I think we should keep going this way," I suggest. "The fact that it gets steeper – well, that just makes it less likely that anyone else will follow us, right?"

"Exactly," Darrin agrees. "Let's keep moving. If we're lucky, no one else will think coming this way is a good idea."

Because it isn't. It's a terrible idea. But arguing about it any longer is an even worse one. Slowly, carefully, Darrin starts climbing down the slope, and the rest of us follow. But I can't help wondering how long it will be before following him and Ada gets one of us killed.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I'm lucky I didn't get any of them killed. I'm the one who told them to run this way. The one who insisted that Darrin and Apollo cross the circle to get to _us_ , rather than the other way around. I wish I could say that I was thinking like Bentley – that I figured fewer tributes would be likely to follow us down the steeper slope. He might be right. But that's not what was going through my head. I wasn't even thinking about the fact that Phoebe, Bentley, and I were on one side, so it made sense for the other two to meet up with the majority of us. At least that would have been numbers – pure and simple, easy to justify.

But I wasn't thinking about the numbers. I was just afraid – afraid of what might happen if I tried to make it across the circle. Me. Not Phoebe or Bentley – _me_. I was afraid that _I_ might die if I tried to reach the others, instead. I wonder if they can tell. If they've figured out that I don't really know what the hell I'm doing. If they realize that coming this way wasn't part of any _plan_ – just a reaction to a moment of fear.

Maybe they know. Maybe they don't. Maybe the rest of them are just as afraid – maybe they're just better at hiding it. Darrin certainly doesn't seem scared, even as he helps the younger ones down the steeper parts of the slope. I'm struggling to find my next footing, but I don't dare ask for help. I don't want to look weak. I'm one of the older members of the group. _I'm_ supposed to be helping _them_. But how long can I do that, if I want to survive?

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

If we want to survive, we're going to have to do some things we don't like. That's what I keep reminding myself of. Mel and I reached the treeline, and now we're waiting. Waiting to see who's coming…

I saw the girl from Seven earlier, running the same way as us. But she wasn't carrying anything. She ran away from the fighting empty-handed, just like we did. But anyone who's coming down this way after us – anyone who took a bit longer – is probably carrying something useful. So we're waiting here, in case we see someone we might be able to overpower.

Mel and I crouch down low. She's watching me – maybe wondering why I'm still waiting. Maybe no one else is coming. Maybe we should just keep moving – in case the tributes who _are_ armed decide to come after us. But my gut says they'll probably stay at the top of the hill for a while – at least long enough to sort through their supplies. That's what I'd do, if I was older and had a large alliance.

But I don't. I have Mel. And I'm glad to have her, but the simple fact is we're not exactly the most intimidating bunch. Even if another tribute comes this way, do we really have a chance of taking their supplies? Maybe it's better if we just—

I'm about to gesture to Mel that it's time to go when I see him. The boy from Eight, rushing down the slope, a backpack slung over his shoulder. I tense, ready to spring, and Mel's eyes widen as she realizes what I'm planning to do. But she doesn't make a move to stop me. The boy runs right for us. He doesn't see me until I lunge, wrapping my arms around his legs and dragging him to the ground.

It's only then that he lets out a yell, but that scream is quickly stifled as I scramble to my knees and wrap my hands around his neck. His hands quickly find my wrists, wrapping around them, trying to push me away. But I hold on. I squeeze. He keeps thrashing. Kicking. His arms flailing wildly once he realizes he's not going to be able to push me away. But not for long. Finally, his body goes still, and a cannon sounds.

"Hey!" A voice from farther up the hill. "Get away from him!" A girl. The girl from Three, I think. Lexi's ally. But where's Lexi? Not my problem. As quickly as I can, I yank the backpack away from the dead boy and take off after Mel, who's already started to run farther down the hill. Into the trees. With any luck, the other girl won't be able to catch us. And as for luck … well, I'd say we've gotten pretty lucky already.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

I'm just lucky it wasn't me. Lucky I didn't happen to be the one running down the hill with a backpack. If I'd been a little bit faster, it might have been me, instead. But would the boy really have attacked me? From the look of it, he just wanted Atleigh's backpack. I don't have anything, so maybe he would have left me alone. And if I'd been closer to Atleigh, maybe I would have been able to save him. Maybe I could have helped…

But _would_ I have? I don't know. I'd like to think I would have. Under any other circumstances – ordinary circumstances – I _know_ I would have tried to help a younger kid, tried to keep them from being killed. But these _aren't_ ordinary circumstances. If I'd been close enough to stop the boy from Four from trying to kill Atleigh … would I really have stepped in?

"Atleigh!" Rick's voice from behind me startles me out of my thoughts. He passes me quickly, rushing over to Atleigh's body.

I shake my head as I step forward to join him. "He's gone. I heard his cannon. The boy from Four … Atleigh had a backpack, and the other boy – he took it. Just like that. I wasn't close enough to…"

Rick shakes his head. "That wasn't your job. It wasn't your job to protect him. It was mine. If I'd been with him – if I'd been a little bit faster. Or if he'd waited. Why couldn't he just _wait_ for me." There are tears in his eyes as he looks up. "It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't your fault, either." I lay a hand on his shoulder. "He chose to run. The other boy chose to attack him. You never wanted either of those things."

None of us did. None of us wanted this. None of us wanted to be here. Even the boy who killed Atleigh probably didn't want this. He just wanted Atleigh's supplies. He just wanted what any of us want: he wanted to live.

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

He just wanted to live. That's why Atleigh took off without me. He wanted to get away from the fighting. He wanted to be safe. But rushing ahead without me got him killed, instead. There was nothing I could do. Nothing Dina could do. All my jokes, all my puns … nothing can make this better. Nothing can bring him back.

But maybe there's something else I can do. I turn to Dina. "Your partner – the girl you were working with – Lexi, right? Is she…?"

Dina shakes her head. "She didn't make it out of the circle. She was trying to get supplies for us, and she … it's just me now. I'm alone."

I stand up slowly. "Maybe you don't have to be. Atleigh was the only partner I had. If both of our partners are dead, then maybe we…"

"You want to work together? Work with _me_? When I couldn't even keep Lexi safe?"

"I couldn't keep Atleigh safe," I point out. "Maybe it's not about keeping each other safe. Maybe it's enough to just keep each other company until…"

Until one of us dies. Until the inevitable happens and either we're attacked or we drown or we burn in a fire or a tree falls on us or … man, there are a lot of ways to die here. And not a lot of ways to live. But if we can make life a little better for each other – even for a little while – then that seems like the best thing to do.

At last, Dina nods. "Okay. It's a deal." The two of us turn away from Atleigh's body and head down the slope hand in hand. I grip her hand tightly. It's just the two of us now. But that's better than being alone.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

It's just the two of us now. Just me and Jim. But that … well, I guess that's still better than being alone. Mantle was going to have to die, anyway, if I want to win. And so does Jim. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. But that doesn't make it any better. It doesn't erase the memory of him bleeding to death right in front of me. It doesn't get rid of the helplessness I felt, the knowledge that there was nothing I could do to save him. Nothing anyone could have done.

Nothing, of course, except run. If we had run in the first place, rather than trying to kill Hannah and make a good impression, we might _all_ have made it out alive. Sure, Jim managed to kill her, but at what cost? And what did we get out of it? We didn't even have the chance to get any supplies – nothing but the knife that the girl from Two threw into Mantle's back. The knife that Jim used to slit Hannah's throat. There's already so much blood on it – but there will be more before the Games are over, if one of us is going to live.

No. No, not 'one of us.' Me. I want to be the one to make it out alive. But I didn't even do anything when Mantle went after Hannah. Jim tried to help, at least, but I … I just stood there. I just watched. Maybe if I had helped, if I had stepped in, maybe we would have been able to finish Hannah off sooner. Maybe we would have had time to grab some supplies. Maybe Mantle…

 _Stop it._ I can't start second-guessing myself. Not now that the Games have actually started. Mantle is dead. Jim and I are alive. We don't have any supplies, but at least we have a knife. That's something. And, for now, it'll have to be enough.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

We're both alive. I suppose that's good enough for now. There's not a lot else that can be said for our situation. I'm blind. We're both unarmed. And we're trapped in an arena with twenty-two other teenagers who want to kill us.

Well, technically not twenty-two. Not anymore. There have been five cannons so far. That means there are only nineteen of us left. And both of us are still alive.

That's thanks to Charlotte, of course. As much as I hate to admit it, I would've been easy pickings without her. I hate that thought – the idea that I'm relying on her too much. Back in District Two, I could usually get along just fine, as long as I only had to get around my house, or get to and from work. I knew my way around. But here … everything is new. I have no idea where anything is – or, at least, I wouldn't, if it wasn't for Charlotte.

But because I'm with her, I haven't stumbled too much as we made our way down the hill. And we've now reached what Charlotte says is the treeline – and a stream that's flowing out of the hill just beside us. I can hear it lapping against the rocks as the pair of us kneel down for a drink. The water is cool and, from what I can tell, at least, clean. It has a funny taste – almost like metal of some sort – maybe coming from somewhere inside the rocks. But if they want us to be able to kill each other, my guess is the Gamemakers haven't gone to the trouble of poisoning the water. There's probably not a lot of fun in that.

Not that there's a lot of fun in _any_ of this – not for us, at least. Charlotte and I rest at the stream as long as we dare, but it's only a few minutes before she suggests that we should probably keep moving. "We don't know who might be following us," she points out. "We probably aren't exactly the hardest group to track."

She's right. By necessity, we make more noise than the others – both because of my clumsy footsteps jostling the smaller rocks and because Charlotte tries to warn me about what's coming up ahead. No, if there was someone who was intent on finding us, they wouldn't have a very hard time. Fortunately, neither of us has really given anyone a reason to target us. If I'm being honest, that's probably the only reason we're still alive.

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

I'm just glad all five of us are still alive. The others seem a bit concerned about whether or not we should have run this way, but if we all made it out of the circle alive … well, we must have done something right. Sure, the path might have been a bit less steep if we'd gone the other way, but there's also no guarantee that all of us would have made it. And this way … Bentley said before that others might be less likely to follow us down this slope, and, judging from the lack of other tributes running this way, it looks like he was right.

Still, that doesn't stop the others from complaining. The younger ones are complaining that their feet hurt. Ada is still fretting about whether or not she made the right choice when she told us to run this way. Only Bentley is silent – either trying to focus on making it down the next part of the slope or maybe, like me, simply grateful to still be alive.

Because not everyone has been so lucky. There were four cannons at the start, and a fifth since we started climbing down the steeper part of the slope. Five tributes – five _people_ – are dead so far, and it's only been … what? Half an hour? Maybe a little more or a little less? Certainly not very long. And already there are only nineteen of us left.

That should be a good thing. Or, at least, something reassuring. But I can't help but wonder who it is that got so unlucky. Hannah, I know, is already dead. But she was expecting that from the start. She volunteered knowing she wouldn't make it out of the Games alive – not with her past with the rebels. But I thought … well, I thought she would be able to…

What? Make it longer? Maybe she would have, if three of them hadn't gone after her at the start. There was a part of me that wanted to help, that wanted to rush in and try to save her, but … well, I was too scared. Or too focused on trying to get Apollo to safety. I had other people who needed me. Other people I was trying to help. And Hannah … she was my district partner, but we weren't working together. I had no reason to try to save her.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

I had no reason to try to save him. Not really. It was Mantle's decision to rush into a fight. His choice to go after Hannah. Still, the look on his face when the knife entered his back … I don't think I'll ever forget that. I thought he would…

What? Be able to make it farther? I guess thought so, too, but it was his choice. He wanted to fight. Well, maybe he didn't _want_ to. But he certainly chose to. He started the fight. The girl from Two – she was just protecting her ally.

I clutch Darrin's hand tightly as my foot slips, nearly pulling both of us down the slope. "Damn it," I mutter, giving the cliff a kick – and instantly regretting it. I don't mean to complain. I know I should be grateful to still be alive. But this – this is almost as bad. I feel like any moment now, we could all slip and fall into … what? I can't even see what's below us. The slope has almost become a cliff, and there's still no sign of what might be at the bottom.

But it's too late to go back up. By now, that would be even worse – and there might be tributes waiting for us at the top. There doesn't seem to be anyone trying to follow us, but that doesn't mean there wouldn't be by the time we made it back up. No, the only thing to do now is keep going – and hope that it doesn't get us killed.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I suppose there's nothing to do now but keep going. The boy from Eight is dead, of course, but his ally – the boy from Three – wasn't far behind the girl from Three. The one who yelled at us, scared us away from the boy's body.

Yelled at _Jethro._ Jethro, who just … killed a boy. I always knew that was what we were going to have to do, but … well, I guess I didn't expect Jethro to want to start so soon. Not that he wanted this. Not that _any_ of us want this. But I expected a little … I don't know. A little more hesitation, especially since Atleigh was…

What? Twelve? Hell, I'm only thirteen. I might only be a few months older than him. And Jethro – he's only a year older than me. None of us are hardened killers. None of us are soldiers. But we're all expected to kill. The boy who won last year – he killed. And he wasn't any older than me.

Still, the thought makes my stomach turn, now that I've actually seen it. The thought of the boy from Eight, squirming in Jethro's grasp, his arms flailing … it still gives me chills. He just wanted to live. He just wanted to get away from the fighting. And Jethro killed him for … what? His supplies? Or just because he could?

I want to believe that there's something useful in that pack. Something that might save our lives. Something that might make what he did worth it. But he's shown no signs of wanting to stop long enough to open it. And I'm certainly not going to suggest it. Not yet. For now, we can keep moving. Down the hill. Together. But now that Jethro's proven just how willing he is to kill, I have to wonder how long our little alliance will last.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling  
** **District One Mentor**

They're still alive. I breathe a sigh of relief as the camera pans back to the top of the hill, where Ra and his group are still sorting through the supplies. There appears to be plenty of food, a few bottles of water, and, of course, all the weapons that were left at the top of the hill. Not many of the other tributes rushed in to grab one.

I didn't, either, of course. Lincoln and I ran immediately last year, and it was a while before we came back in search of weapons. But when we came back, at least, there was no one there. I wonder if the others will have the same chance this year, or if Ra and his group plan on staying at the top of the hill.

There certainly doesn't seem to be much of an advantage in leaving. They have everything they could want right there – everything, of course, except the opportunity for a fight. No one is really likely to attack them while they're in such a good position. And they don't really have a reason to venture anywhere else.

Charlotte and Julian, on the other hand, seem to want to get as far away from the top of the hill as possible. And they're making good time, I suppose, all things considered. And, even more importantly, no one else seems to be in the same area. All in all, the tributes are getting pretty spread out.

"It's a bit different, isn't it," General Tyrone offers, taking a seat next to me on one of the couches. Gloria invited me to join her and the other escorts in District Six's quarters – an offer I wasn't about to turn down. Being around so many people is a bit … intimidating, but it's still better than watching the Games alone.

"Different?" I echo, not quite sure what he means. Different than what? Different than last year? Of course it's different. I'm not in the arena. I'm not fighting for my life. That's different enough.

"Seeing things from the outside," he explains. "Being able to tell which tributes are near each other, who might be able to make a move against whom … but also being unable to do anything to influence the course of the Games. When you were in the arena, you had a say in what happened – even if it didn't seem that way at the time. Now all you can do – all _any_ of us can do – is watch and wait."

I nod a little. He's right. It's different. But this is better. I wouldn't want to be back in the arena. I don't regret volunteering, but I wouldn't want to be in a situation like that again.

I glance up at the general. Both of his tributes are still alive – which makes this different for him, too. Last year, the boy from Seven was one of the first to die. And the girl…

She lived. She lived long enough to torture Vance to death, and would have done the same to me, if I hadn't gotten lucky. But that … that's all in the past. She's gone. She's dead. And I'm still here. I made it. I survived. And that's all that matters.

* * *

 **And the Games have begun! Sorry if you jumped to the end looking for a list of who died this chapter. We don't do that. :)**

 **Congrats to Ra, Charlotte, Julian, and Ada, who won the sponsor poll and will be receiving a gift at some point during the Games. They may not be the _only_ tributes who receive gifts, but they'll definitely get something. The rest of the results are up on the blog, along with a map of the arena.**


	22. Take Your Time

**Take Your Time**

 _You could never back down, you never learned to take your time._

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

I'm glad the others decided we can afford to take our time for now. It'll give us time to sort through the supplies. Time to figure out what we can bring with us and what we'll have to leave here if we decide to venture away from the top of the hill. Time to figure out which weapons we'd like to use – and what to do with the others, since there are more here than the four of us could hope to carry.

And time to … well, to recover, I suppose. The fighting didn't last very long, but I have to admit, I'm a little shaken up. Hannah is dead. Any of us could have died. _I_ could have died.

But I didn't. I killed, instead. Not that the girl from Four was planning to kill me. No. Maybe it would be easier if she had been. Easier to justify stabbing her through the chest. Easier to forget the look on her face – the surprise, the horror, the pain. Maybe it would be easier if she'd been trying to kill me.

But she wasn't. She was just reaching for a loaf of bread. Just trying to collect a little food so that she wouldn't starve. It wasn't even as if it was food that _I_ needed. There's plenty here. Letting her take a loaf of bread wouldn't have meant I was going to starve. No, that wasn't why I killed her.

I killed her because I could. Because I needed to kill _someone_ in order to prove myself to the rest of the group. And because she happened to be there. She was unlucky enough to be in my way. I had to kill _someone_ , but there's a part of me that's … well, that's sorry it ended up being her.

The fact that I managed to kill _someone_ , though, puts me in a good position. Certainly in a better position than Isaac, who's pacing the perimeter of the hill while the rest of us sort through the supplies. He offered to stand guard, to make sure no one attacks us. But I think there's a part of him that's hoping someone _will_. That he'll have a chance to prove himself, too. I understand, of course. If _I_ hadn't managed to kill Lexi, I'd probably be doing the same thing.

But I did. I _did_ kill her. So I can afford to relax for a little while, to sit here and help Ra and Jayda sort through the supplies. They already know I can pull my own weight. That I'm willing to do what has to be done. I might not be _happy_ about it, but … yes, I'm willing. And maybe that's all that matters.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

There will be plenty of time for him to prove himself later. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Isaac is anxious – or why. Ra, Ivone, and I already have a kill to our names. But there are still plenty of tributes out there. There will be plenty of time for him to make his mark.

But for now … well, at least he can put his restlessness to good use. He doesn't seem to mind pacing around the top of the hill, which is a good use of his energy. He'll see anyone who happens to be coming, and the sight of someone with a dagger and a mace patrolling the top of the hill will probably make anyone think twice about coming back this way, even before they saw the knives he stuffed in his waistband.

He's armed to the teeth – that's for sure. All of us are, or will be once we've finished sorting through the supplies and taken our pick of the weapons. There are plenty to choose from. I already chose an axe, as well as a smaller dagger and an assortment of knives. Ra has his spear, along with a club he chose from the pile. Ivone seems content with the dagger she used to kill Lexi, but I may be able to persuade her to take an extra weapon or two along if we leave the hill.

No. No, _when_ we leave the hill. It's only a matter of time. But we're waiting for the right moment. Ra had a plan during training – a plan that will work even better from our position at the highest point in the arena. We just have to wait for the right time…

Not yet. I busy myself with sorting the food we found before Isaac's antsiness can rub off on me, too. We have time. Plenty of it. Last year, the Gamemakers sent a panther mutt after some of the tributes who were sitting around doing nothing … but surely they can see that's not what we're doing. We've been responsible for three of the five deaths so far. And they wouldn't have put so much food here if they didn't want us to at least have a look through it.

So we do have a look, then eat a little and stuff as much of the rest as we can into the four backpacks that are left. Ivone says she saw the boy from Eight run off with one, so he's probably got a fair amount of supplies. But there's plenty left for the four of us. Probably enough for a month or so, and last time the Games only lasted…

Four days. The last Games only lasted four days. This time might be longer, of course – or it might be shorter – but, unless the Games last a _lot_ longer, we have plenty of food to last us until the end. Especially since there won't be four of us forever. Just like there weren't five of us for long. Hannah is dead. How long before someone else from our group joins her?

It doesn't matter. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. It doesn't matter, as long as that person isn't me. But the truth is, I'd like to keep our group – or what's left of it – intact as long as possible. As long as we're one of the larger – and certainly the best-armed – groups, other tributes will be reluctant to attack us. We'll be able to fight on our own terms, rather than theirs. And the longer that lasts, the better.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

If this cliff lasts much longer, I think my arms are going to give out. "Take your time!" Darrin calls from a little below me. Clearly, he hasn't reached the bottom yet – if he had, he would have told us.

"Right," I mumble, loud enough for Ada to hear. "Take your time. Make this damn climb last even longer."

"I'm sorry, all right?" Her face is turning red again – whether from frustration or from the exertion of climbing down what's quickly turned into a steep cliff face, I'm not sure. Probably a combination of the two. "Next time we'll let _you_ choose which way to go!"

Right now, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea. I certainly wouldn't have chosen to come this way. But I don't say so. I'm not actually upset at _her_. I'm just tired. My arms ache. My legs ache. And I can't see what might be at the bottom of the cliff. Well, maybe I _could_ , but I don't dare look down. Not yet. Darrin is the farthest down – I'm sure he'll tell us when we're getting close to the bottom. Bentley is a little below me, Phoebe a little above, Ada to my left and a little below.

"Just keep climbing!" Darrin calls. "We're almost there."

"Really?" Phoebe calls back. "Can you see the bottom, or—"

"No," Darrin admits. "But we must be close!"

"Can't you all be quiet?" Bentley grunts. "You're making it hard to—"

But he doesn't get to finish his sentence – he's interrupted by a scream as Phoebe's foot slips. "Help!" she cries, barely hanging on. And I want to help. I do. But if I started climbing back up, I don't know if I'd make it – or if I'd even be able to help her. She's almost as big as I am.

But that doesn't stop Ada, who starts sliding sideways along the cliff, making her way back towards Phoebe. But not quickly enough. She's already beginning to slip. It's all I can do to huddle as close to the wall as I can as she loses her grip and tumbles past me, screaming. Ada reaches for her, but she's not close enough. Neither is Darrin, who also clutches at the air as she falls past.

A second passes. Then another. Then the screaming stops. But there's no cannon. She's still alive. Maybe the bottom _is_ close. "Phoebe!" Darrin calls. "Are you okay?"

There's no response.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

I'm still alive. That's the first thing I realize as I come to. I must have hit my head on the way down, since I don't remember landing. But apparently I've landed in something wet. Wet and cold and smelly. Some sort of marsh. It must have cushioned my fall a little, or else I'd be…

Dead. That's the word. The word I don't want to think about. Because I'm not dead yet. But everything hurts. My arms and legs still ache, but worse than that is the jarring pain in my back. I can hear Darrin calling for me – asking if I'm okay. I'm not. But I don't have the strength to call back. Not yet. He doesn't sound too far away. If he's close to the bottom, maybe he'll reach me soon.

Soon. I close my eyes. I don't want him to reach me soon. I want him to reach me safely. I don't want him – or any of them – to fall.

I can smell something else. Blood. Mine, I assume. Maybe that's why my hair feels so sticky. I can smell something else, too, over the odor of the swamp. Urine. Maybe the swamp will mask the smell. I don't want the others to know…

What? That I wet myself? I think I have bigger problems than that. The smell of blood is growing stronger. I think it's coming from my head. Whatever I hit my head on must have been hard. I open my eyes. Try to sit up. But that just makes the pain worse. Better to wait. Wait for them to find me. Wait for Darrin to find me. He'll know what to do.

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

I have no idea what to do. That much is obvious the moment I see Phoebe lying in the swampy water at the base of the cliff. I scramble down the rest of the cliff as fast as I can. As fast as I dare. I haven't heard a cannon yet, but she doesn't look good. There's blood pooling around her head, coming from a deep cut just above her right ear. Her eyes are open as I kneel beside her, but she doesn't seem to recognize me. She looks confused. Or maybe just in pain. Too much pain to know – or even care – who I am.

Okay. Okay, think. What am I supposed to do? I don't think I should move her, but leaving her in the swampy water doesn't seem like a good option, either. The cut on her head could get infected – if it isn't already. I glance around. Unfortunately, everything else at the base of the cliff seems to be swampy, too. There are some plants – a few reeds and lily pads – but, other than that, no signs of life, aside from the two of us and the three shapes slowly descending the cliff face.

Bentley is the next to reach us, his eyes wide as he approaches. "Shit," he hisses. "What are we supposed to do now?"

I don't know. But I can't admit that. I'm supposed to be taking care of them. I'm the oldest in the group, and since they're mad at Ada for leading us down here, it's up to me to make sure that the group stays together. But I don't know what to do. I don't—

"Get her head out of the water!" Apollo calls as he jumps down the last few feet of the cliff. Ada is right behind him, nearly in tears.

Carefully, I prop Phoebe up so that her head is resting in my arms, rather than in the water. But we can't stay like this forever. "Phoebe?" I ask quietly. "Can you hear me?"

She moans a little. As if she's trying to respond, but doesn't have the strength. Or can't find the words. Maybe whatever hit her head caused some sort of damage – and that doesn't seem to be the worst of it. Her body is limp as I lift her from the water. My arms and legs already ache from the climb down the cliff, but maybe I can carry her a little…

"You really think you can carry her?" Bentley asks skeptically. "Where are we going to go?"

He has a point. There seems to be swamp in pretty much every direction. "I don't know," I admit, "but we can't stay here. And we can't leave her."

Bentley opens his mouth to disagree, but thinks better of it when he glances up at Ada. She's already blaming herself for the fact that we ran this way. If we leave Phoebe behind … no. We can't. She _won't_ , and I'm not letting the two of them stay here together.

It's Apollo who offers a solution. "Look, there are two directions we could go. Let's send someone each way to see how soon the swamp ends – then pick the direction that looks the best. I'll go this way." He gestures off to the right.

"And I'll go the other way," Bentley offers. "You two stay here with Phoebe – try to keep her comfortable."

 _Keep her comfortable._ He already sounds like … like he thinks she's going to die. And maybe she is. But I'll be damned if she's going to die alone out here. "Okay," I agree. "Stay safe. Come back soon." Before I even finish the sentence, they've both disappeared into the marsh. I glance up at Ada, who shakes her head. Clearly, she doesn't think this is a good idea. But it's not as if she's in much of a position to say so. And it's better than waiting around doing nothing.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

Darrin obviously thinks this is a better solution than waiting around doing nothing. And maybe it is – at least for Apollo and Bentley. At least they're scouting out the terrain. Darrin and Phoebe and I – we're sitting ducks if someone finds us here, especially with Phoebe in such bad condition.

"It's not your fault, you know," Darrin offers gently as the two of us wait.

I can feel my face reddening. "Damn right it's not! It's not like I pushed her off the cliff or anything. And if any of you thought it was a bad idea to come this way, then you should've said so before we started climbing down! It's not my fault no one else had any idea what to do."

Darrin smiles a little. "Easy. Easy. I said it _wasn't_ your fault, remember."

I lean back against the cliff, trying to stay out of the swamp as much as possible. But it's not working. The water has already soaked straight through the thin shoes they gave us, along with my socks and the bottom of my pants. But I should be grateful. Phoebe's even worse off, after all. On top of being injured, she's soaked, and she reeks of urine. But there's nothing we can do about that. It's not like they gave us a spare set of clothes or anything.

"The packages," I whisper to Darrin.

Darrin raises an eyebrow. "What packages? And why are you whispering?"

He's right. There's no reason to whisper. Anyone nearby would have heard Phoebe's scream. It's not as if we can hide. And it's not as if the Gamemakers wouldn't have thought to put cameras down here – there's no hiding what I'm about to say from the Capitol, either. I shake my head, dropping the whisper. "The packages – the ones that the Gamemakers sent to some of the tributes last year. They sent food, and a list of the tributes who had died, but maybe … maybe they could send something for Pheobe, instead."

Forget the 'maybe,' really. I'm sure they _could_. But what would it take to get them to do that? The packages went to the audience's favorite tributes, the announcer said last year, but there didn't really seem to be a pattern to which tributes the audience favored. The first night, it was the boy from Eleven. Then the pair from Ten. Then, the third night, the boy from Twelve. Why them? Whatever it was that impressed the audience, that's the key – the key that might save Phoebe's life.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

The packages are the key, I remind myself as the sun creeps higher in the sky. The others are getting restless. They want to move on to … what? If we set out blindly, we'll have no idea which direction the others might have run in. The rocky ground gives them an advantage that the sand didn't last year. They can hide their footprints. We saw where some of them went, but they could easily have changed directions after leaving the top of the hill. No, our best chance is to wait.

From the top of the hill, perhaps, we'll be able to see which way the packages go. They have to come from somewhere, after all – probably from a hovercraft flying overhead. And they all came around the same time last year – shortly after dusk. They made a pinging noise, and they lit up – easy to see, if you know what you're looking for. We should be able to spot them from here, and then…

And then follow them. It seems like the simplest way of finding some of the other tributes, now that they're scattered across the arena. We'll have to be careful, of course – following the parachutes in the dark will be no easy feat – but it's a better plan than any of the others have come up with, and most of them seem willing to wait until dark to make our next move.

Most of them. Isaac is still pacing restlessly. I suppose I might be doing the same thing, if I were in his position. But I'm _not_ in his position. I made sure of that. If he didn't have the initiative to kill someone earlier, that's his problem – not mine.

No, it's not my problem … but I can still make use of it. He'll be the most likely to charge on ahead, ready for a fight, once we figure out where some of the other tributes are. He'll relish a chance to prove himself, and that might make him reckless. If we happen upon someone more dangerous, _he'll_ be their first target. And if we don't…

If we don't find someone dangerous, he'll get an easy kill. Exactly what he wants – the chance to prove himself. And the rest of us will have lost nothing. We've already proven to the audience – and to each other – that we're willing to kill. After all, anyone who's willing to kill once is probably willing to do it again.

Probably. That's the question, I suppose – whether we'll be willing to kill again, or whether we'll be more squeamish the second time. Because there will be a second time – and probably more – if we want to survive. The Games are far from over.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

The Games aren't over yet. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Elinor is dead. I'm alone in the arena. I'm unarmed, and I didn't even manage to grab any food from the top of the hill. But it's not over. I still have time. And she would have had to die, anyway…

But not like that. I didn't see her die, but she was fighting the girl from Two when I ran. And then there was a cannon. If she'd survived, she would have caught up to me by now. If she even wanted to, after I abandoned her.

What choice did I have, though? Rush in and fight alongside her? With what? I didn't have a weapon. And by the time I grabbed one … No. No, I made the right choice. The same choice she would have made. She wouldn't have rushed in to help me.

Would she?

No. No, she wouldn't have. None of us would – at least, none of us who are serious about making it home. We're not about to risk our lives for each other. I did what anyone with any sense would have done. So why does the thought still make my stomach churn? Why am I still trying to convince myself that there might have been something I could have done?

Rest. That's what I need. Rest. There's a stream up ahead – that's as good a place as any. If the tributes at the top of the hill were planning to follow me, I would be able to see them by now. Chances are, they're still at the top. Still sorting through their supplies. Their spoils.

It's not fair. Sure, it's the way it worked last year, too – there were weapons in the middle of the arena, and tributes had a chance to claim them at the start – but no one _stayed_ there last year. There was nothing to stop them from doing so, I suppose, but none of the groups last year were so … large. To have so many of them still at the top of the hill, together – it gives them a huge advantage.

And, by the same token, it puts the rest of us at a disadvantage. Especially those of us who are alone. I didn't expect that to include _me_ – not quite so soon. I thought that I'd still be working with Elinor. That we could protect each other – for a while, at least.

But we can't. She couldn't even protect herself. Not that I would have been able to, either, had I been in her position. But I _wasn't_ in her position. And I can't keep apologizing for that – not if I want to live.

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

I can't keep worrying about what I could have done to save Atleigh. Not if I want to survive. Not if I want to help my new ally.

Allies. I never would have guessed that I would end up working with Dina, and I'm pretty sure it's not something she ever expected, either. But here we are, working together. "Weird, huh?"

"What?" Dina asks before I realize I said that out loud.

I shrug. "You. Me. Deciding that it wouldn't be good for us to work together, and now … surprise! Working together."

Dina smiles a little. "I guess we make a better pair than I thought."

"I hope so." I glance around at the trees. "Too bad we didn't team up with one of the kids from Seven. I bet they'd feel right at home."

Dina nods. "Sure, but we had no way of knowing there'd be trees. Just like the tributes last year had no way of knowing the arena would be a maze with a bunch of sand. I mean, if we'd known, _everyone_ would've been trying to team up with the Seven kids. Or maybe Eleven – there are trees there, too, I suppose."

"Certainly more than there are in Three," I agree. "Which is weird, once you think about it."

"Why?"

"Because it's in our name – just get rid of the h, and we're District Tree."

To my surprise, Dina giggles a little. She never laughed at my puns before. Maybe it's the fact that we both need a laugh so badly, after what happened. Maybe she's just trying to humor me because I'm the only ally she has left. Either way, it feels good to hear someone laugh again.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

It feels good to laugh again, even if it was such a stupid joke. District Three. District Tree. It shouldn't have been funny. But maybe it's just the fact that he's trying to break the tension. The tension of the fact that we're in a death match, sure, but also the tension coming from the fact that Atleigh is dead. Lexi is dead. We both just lost someone, and he's … laughing. I'm laughing. But maybe that's the best way to handle it, because the alternative…

The alternative is breaking down and crying. Or getting angry and vowing revenge against the tributes who killed our friends. But both of those things are pointless now. Sure, I want to cry. I'm sure we all do. But crying won't bring Lexi and Atleigh back. Crying won't help us find food. And crying would just make our friends and family who are watching feel even worse. That's something I can't bear to do to them.

And getting angry … well, that's even less productive. Because it's not like we can go after the tributes who killed Atleigh and Lexi. The boy who killed Atleigh is younger than us, sure. Smaller, yes. But he also has supplies. We don't know what was in the bag that Atleigh grabbed – the bag the boy from Four took. If there were weapons in there, then he and his ally could be armed. And we're … well, not.

But if going after them is pointless, then going after the tributes who killed Lexi is practically suicide. Because I know for a fact that they _are_ armed – with all the weapons that were left at the top of the hill. The girl from Twelve killed Lexi, but she's not alone. There were five of them at the start. Even if one or two of them were killed, they still outnumber Rick and me.

No. No, going after them wouldn't do any good – and would probably just get us killed. That's not what Lexi would want. Not what Atleigh would want. And, hell, it's certainly not what _we_ want. We want to live, thank you very much. Sure, we won't be able to protect each other forever, but at least we can keep each other from doing something stupid like running off on a fruitless quest for revenge.

Not that I even want to. Not really. The boy from Four, after all – he was just doing what he thought he had to in order to survive. And the girl from Twelve probably saw Lexi as an easy target and took advantage of the moment. I don't think she _wanted_ to kill Lexi. Most of us don't _want_ to kill anyone.

I know I certainly don't. But I'll have to, eventually, if I want to live. And if seeing Lexi and Atleigh die convinced me of anything, it's that I _do_ want to live. They were both so young. But Lexi wasn't really any younger than me. I don't want to die. I want to live. But in order to do that, I'll have to kill.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

I had to kill him. The boy from Eight. There wasn't really another option. Not one that would have been better, at least. Sure, I could have tried to rip his bag off while he was still alive. Or convince him to hand it over. But the girl from Three was pretty close behind him. If he'd been able to stall – even for a little while – she would have caught up, and Mel and I would have been the ones in danger.

Or, at least, _I_ would have. I'm pretty sure Mel would have run. Not that I blame her for that. Running would've been the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do. Which is why we kept on moving, even after it was clear that no one was actually planning to follow us. We found a stream, and we've been following it through the trees.

But now the ground is getting a bit soggier. It's a familiar feeling. The forest is quickly turning into a marsh. Mel and I slow to a stop. "Maybe we should see what's in that bag before moving on," she suggests.

Not a bad idea. There may be something in here that'll help us. Or at least something to eat. The sun has started to sink a little – it must be past noon by now. I'm hungry, and she probably is, too. But she hasn't complained, hasn't even suggested opening the pack until now. She realized the same thing I did – that getting away from the other tributes was more important.

So we stop by the stream, and we each drink a little before opening the pack. Inside are a pair of knives, a water bottle, and plenty of food. A bag of nuts, several packages of crackers, some raisins, five strips of dried beef, and three small loaves of bread.

Mel is grinning as we eat a little of the beef and bread, then repack the bag. Any doubts she may have had about whether I made the right choice when I attacked the boy from Eight … well, they're gone now. I hand her one of the knives and keep the other. Her eyes widen a little as she fingers it, as if she wasn't quite expecting me to give her one of the weapons. But I figure we look a bit more intimidating if we're both armed.

Besides, it's not as if I think she'll kill _me_ with it. Certainly not yet. There are still nineteen of us left. There's no point in turning on each other – not yet. Not when there are so many larger groups still in the arena.

Larger, yes. But I doubt there are many that are better armed. There didn't seem to be many tributes rushing in to grab weapons at the start of the Games. And if the large group stays at the top of the hill for a while, the others may not have the chance to arm themselves for a long while yet. Which is a good thing for us. Any tributes we happen to come across are unlikely to be armed. Which might make any fight we get in a rather quick one.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

It's almost hard to believe we got all this out of a rather quick fight. And a rather quick decision on Jethro's part. When it was clear he was about to attack the boy from Eight, I wasn't certain it was a good idea. But now … well, it's hard to argue with the results. We have food. We have water. And both of us are armed. Those are three things that most of the other tributes in the arena probably can't say.

Well, unless they found the same stream we did – or another one like it. Then they have water. Which is a nice change from last year. Last year, most of the water in the arena seemed to come from the rain. There were a couple smaller pools of water, but nothing like this. The stream is pretty wide – and seems to get wider farther down, where Jethro says it's turning into a swamp.

I'll take his word on that. I'm certainly not in a hurry to find out for myself. There was a swamp in last year's arena, and one of the tributes ended up drowning in it trying to reach some berries in the center. To be fair, I might have made the same mistake if I was hungry enough. Any of us might have. But now that we have food, I won't have to worry about that. Not for a while, at least. As long as we're careful to ration it, this can last us a while. And it's not as if it needs to last us weeks. Just until…

Just until the end of the Games. Last year, that was four days. Maybe it'll be more this year. Maybe less. We have no way of knowing – no way of knowing anything aside from the fact that there are still nineteen of us left. Five tributes dead. And Jethro killed one of them.

 _Stop it._ We all knew that was going to have to happen eventually. It's the Hunger Games. Tributes die. Tributes kill. And I'm going to have to do the same if I want to survive. That's the way the Games work. Jethro knows that. The fact that he was willing to act on it so quickly – that's a good thing.

Isn't it?

Of course it is. It means he won't hesitate next time. And that much is certain – there _will_ be a next time. At least, if we want to survive.

* * *

 **Jim Demetrius, 18  
** **District Nine**

This won't be the last time. I clench my teeth tightly as I continue to climb. The slope Lacey and I were running down quickly turned into a cliff face, growing steeper and steeper with every step. But it's too late to go back. By now, that would be just as difficult as continuing. No, we have to keep moving.

Unfortunately, our pace has done nothing to clear my head. Nothing to get rid of the image of Mantle dying in front of me. Nothing to make me forget the blood as I drew my knife across the girl from Ten's neck. I tucked that knife into my waistband as we ran, but I can still feel it pressing against my skin. I can still feel the blood. At least last year they had the sense to give the tributes pockets. We don't really have a good way to carry _anything_ , let alone a weapon.

On the plus side, that means any tributes who decide to follow us down this slope will have the same problem. Chances are, we'll be safe for a while once we reach the bottom. _If_ we reach the bottom. So far, there doesn't seem to be any end in sight.

Stupid. Of course there's an end. Somewhere. The Gamemakers wouldn't put a ridiculously tall cliff in the arena. After all, they want us to kill each other, not fall to our deaths. We're probably close to the bottom right now.

Suddenly, there's a shout from somewhere below. "There they are! Let's get them!" Shit. Who would be down there already? Did Hannah's allies find another way – a quicker way – down there? If they did, are we climbing right into a trap? "Up!" I call to Lacey. "Back up the cliff!" I reach for a handhold above me – one I'm certain was there a few moments ago when I was climbing down.

But my hand slips. "Damn it!" I shout, reaching up. Grasping. But I'm losing my grip with my other hand. If I don't find something to hold onto soon—

My other hand slips, and suddenly I'm falling. Tumbling downwards. Past Lacey. Past the rocks. I hit the ground with a terrible crack. There's something wet around me. Blood? No. No, it doesn't smell like blood. It's water. I can feel the knife in my pants digging into my leg. My arms ache, but I manage to reach the knife.

No sooner do my fingers pull it from my waistband, however, then something kicks it away from my grasp. A foot. A foot that belongs to a boy. A younger boy – from Seven, I think. What's he doing down here? Was he the one who shouted? Is _he_ the one I was so afraid of?

Even if he wasn't, I'm certainly afraid now. He has my knife. My whole body hurts. I can barely move anything. I try to wriggle out of the way as he reaches down. But I can't. I can't move. I barely have the strength to lift my arms, and can do little more than try to swat the knife out of his grasp. It doesn't work. Is this how Hannah felt, when I killed her? I hope not. I wouldn't wish this on anyone.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I hope he doesn't feel it. The boy barely moves as I reach down and plunge the knife into his throat. For a moment, there's a soft, gurgling noise. But then silence. And then a cannon. _His_ cannon. He's dead, and I … I killed him.

I didn't mean for him to fall. I saw them climbing down the cliff, and I panicked. I didn't want them to find us. I thought maybe I could scare them back up the cliff. I was just trying to protect my friends.

I grip the knife tightly as the girl continues to climb down. Maybe she wants to help the boy. Maybe she's figured out that there's no one down here to be afraid of. Just a scared thirteen-year-old from District Seven. I take off back towards the others. Back to where Ada, Darrin, and Phoebe are waiting for Apollo and me to come back. Waiting for us to tell them which way to go.

Well, not this way – that's for sure. There's nothing this way. Nothing but more cliffs, more swamp, and an angry girl from Eight who's well on her way down the cliff. Maybe she'll fall, too, but I'm not waiting around to find out. I just hope I can make it back to Ada and Darrin before she catches me.

I glance down at the knife in my hands. Right now, that might be more help to me than Ada and Darrin would. If the girl from Eight isn't armed – if this knife was their only weapon – then she might not come after me, even if she doesn't realize that I have allies in the area. I slow down a little, my shoes sloshing about in the marsh. I'm armed. I have a knife. I _killed_ a boy. A boy who had just fallen off a cliff, sure, but an older boy. A stronger boy. _I_ killed someone.

But do I want them to know that? If I tell the others that … what will they think? Will they understand? Or will they be horrified that I killed someone who was in the same position as Phoebe? Or, worse, will they be worried that I might do the same thing to her? To any of them? Maybe it's better not to tell them.

I can't hide the knife, of course. But I can hide what I _did_ with it. Quickly, I bend over and wipe the blood off on some of the marsh grass nearby. It seems so easy. A little _too_ easy. They'll never know what just happened. That I'm a killer. And if _they_ don't know, then maybe I can forget…

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I'll never forget that scream. There was nothing I could do for him. He just … fell. It's strange. I always imagined that he would die … well, the same way Mantle did, I suppose. Fighting. Killed by a stronger opponent. I never stopped to think that maybe he would just fall off a cliff.

I keep climbing down, mostly because that seems like an easier option at the moment. I'm probably screwed either way. If there _is_ someone down there, I'm walking right into their arms. But climbing back up – that'll take even longer. I'm more likely to fall at any moment, and the higher I climb back up, the farther I'll fall. Maybe whoever's at the bottom of the cliff will be content with making _one_ of us fall. Maybe they're already gone.

As soon as I dare, I look down. I can see Jim's body, but I don't see anyone else. That shouldn't be too surprising, I suppose. If there _is_ someone down there, they're probably hiding. That's certainly what I would be doing.

I take a deep breath and keep climbing. Down. Down. At least now I know where the bottom is. It's not as far as I thought. Not as far as it looked from above. Once I'm close enough, I drop the last few feet, then glance around, ready to fight.

Fight with what? I'm not entirely sure. But, fortunately, there doesn't seem to be anyone else. Whoever was here, they've disappeared. Maybe Jim scared them when he fell. Or maybe the voices came from somewhere else entirely…

No. No, they couldn't have. I know that as soon as I get a better look at Jim's body. I'd assumed it was the fall that killed him, but there's blood. Blood that came from a wound in his throat. So unless he landed on something that punctured his neck, someone else killed him.

I quickly roll the body over. There's nothing beneath him – certainly nothing that would cause a wound like that. So someone killed him and then … what? Ran away? That seems a bit odd, especially since they apparently took Jim's knife. Of course, for all they knew, I had a weapon, too.

But I don't. And chances are I won't be getting one anytime soon. The weapons are all back at the top of the hill, and I have _no_ intention of climbing back up there. Not unless I have to.

 _Unless I have to._ Unless I get so desperate for food that climbing back up there seems like a good idea. There's plenty of water around. Swamp water, but I suppose that's better than nothing. But there doesn't seem to be any _food_. Not unless reeds and lily pads count. And I don't really know if they do or not.

But, aside from being hungry, weaponless, ally-less, and scared shitless … well, at least I'm still alive. Mantle is dead. Jim is dead. But I'm not. I'm still alive. And I intend to stay that way.

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

At least we won't die of thirst anytime soon. The stream we found has only gotten wider, and the trees have gotten a little thicker. Maybe some of the leaves are edible. Or maybe the bark. I'm not really sure, though. It's not the same sort of scrounging I'm used to doing. I'm used to sifting through garbage cans or scraping food off the sidewalks. Forests aren't exactly what I was expecting. And Julian … he doesn't seem much more comfortable in the woods than I am. He's used to streets and sidewalks. Level ground. We finally stopped a little while ago, and he's leaning back against a tree, catching his breath. Neither of us really wants to continue anytime soon.

And maybe there's no reason to. We have everything we could really want right here – well, aside from food, I suppose. We have water. We have shelter. And if we get desperate, we could try eating the leaves and bark. It's not as if we really have anything to lose.

And it's probably safe to eat. Probably. I mean, if _I_ was a Gamemaker, I wouldn't put a bunch of poisonous plants in the arena. Because where's the fun in that? They want us to kill _each other._ And we can't do that if we all keel over and die because the bark we tried to eat was poisonous.

"What do the trees look like?" Julian asks quietly, maybe wondering if he would recognize the shape of the leaves or the texture of the bark.

"The bark is a bit rough," I offer. "And dark. The leaves are kind of pointy at the ends. Maybe it's—"

Julian shakes his head. "That's not what I mean. I mean, are there branches near the ground? Ones that we could break off and use as weapons if…"

I burst out laughing. Julian's face turns beet red. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." I catch my breath, then explain. "What's funny is that _I_ was thinking maybe we could use them for food, and you – you were wondering about weapons."

He manages a smile. "It is pretty funny, I guess. The blind kid suggesting we fight, while you just wanted some food."

"But you're right," I agree. "If we can sharpen the sticks a little – there's plenty of rocks nearby – well, that's a better weapon than nothing." I reach up and break off as big a branch as I can. Then another. One for each of us.

I hand one to Julian, and we each pluck off most of the smaller limbs and begin sharpening the ends on the rocks in front of us. Julian nods. "Thank you."

That's the second time he's thanked me. And, despite myself, I can't help smiling. Maybe what I'm doing isn't terribly extraordinary. After all, all I did was help him down a hill – and then hand him a branch. But, to him, it's everything. It means I think he's worth helping. And I do. Not because he's blind. Not because I feel sorry for him. But because I like him. Because I enjoy his company.

I grip the branch tightly in my hands. Maybe it's strange. But there have been so few things in my life that I've done simply because I've _wanted_ to. Everything has always been about survival. About finding food or shelter for the night. I've never really had time to think about what I _want_. Strange that here, of all places, I'd be able to think about that. And I _want_ this. I _want_ to help him. And for now … for now, I guess that's enough.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

I guess these branches will have to be good enough for now. Once I stopped, I managed to break a few branches off one of the trees and sharpen them on the rocks. They're definitely no swords, but they might be useful in a pinch. At the very least, they might make the other tributes think twice about attacking me.

Some of the tributes, at least. If one of the larger groups finds me – especially if they managed to get some _actual_ weapons – they probably won't think twice. I may have sharpened them, sure, but the branches I'm holding are still wood. They won't hold up against real weapons. But they're the best I have for now.

I reach up and pluck a few more leaves from the trees. They have a bitter taste, but at least I won't starve. Not yet. I haven't found any water, but if there are trees, there has to be _some_ sort of water nearby – or, at least, it has to rain often enough for the trees to keep growing. There was rain last year – enough to keep the tributes alive. Maybe there will be rain tonight.

Tonight. The sun is already starting to sink lower in the sky. It'll be dark soon. As quietly as I can, I scurry up into the nearest tree, dragging my sharpened branches up with me. Maybe the tree's branches will be enough to hide me from sight in the dark. If I had an ally or two, one of us could keep watch while the others slept. But I don't have anyone else.

That was my choice, of course. I didn't _want_ any allies. I figured I would be better off going it alone. And at least I don't have to worry about anyone stabbing me in the back while I'm asleep, or about finding them after the initial fighting was over. But now that it's getting darker, the forest seems oddly … quiet.

The woods are usually quiet back in District Seven, of course … but not this quiet. I haven't seen any animals. No mice, no squirrels. I haven't even seen any birds, and can barely hear any insects. In fact, the only thing I can hear – somewhere in the distance – is the sound of water. A river, maybe, or at least a stream. There's a part of me that wants to go looking for it now, but if I don't find it before dark…

No. No, it's better to wait. Better to take my time. Wherever it is, it'll still be there in the morning. And, hopefully, I'll still be here, too.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

I hope Ra is right about the parachutes being sent at dusk, because otherwise we've wasted a whole day waiting up here for nothing. Sure, we managed to sort through all of the supplies – five times, it seems like – but what else have we accomplished? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't getting a bit restless.

No. No, that's not quite right. _I_ might not be getting restless. But Z certainly is. He was disappointed that we didn't kill anyone earlier. Or, at least, I didn't … and the others did. Ra killed the girl from Six. Jayda killed the boy from Eleven. Even Ivone managed to kill the girl from Four. And I did nothing. I won't let that happen again.

As the darkness settles in, I catch a hint of a smile on Ra's face. He's so certain that he's right. That we'll be able to follow the parachute directly to whoever it's intended for. And maybe he _is_ right … but does he have to be so damn smug about it? It's not as if the rest of us wouldn't have thought of that eventually. Not as if we were planning on sitting up here forever. We might have even found someone _sooner_ , if I'd been in charge.

I'm not sure when, exactly, we decided that he was in charge. But Jayda seems perfectly content to go along with whatever he suggests. To be fair, what he's suggested has worked pretty well so far. But it's not as if it was some brilliant plan that none of the rest of us would have come up with.

I want to drop it. To remind myself that he's not the enemy. But he _is_. Eventually, they're _all_ the enemy. The fact that we're working together for a little while now – that doesn't change what has to happen eventually. He's going to have to die. Someone is going to have to kill him. And there's a part – a part that's growing every time he smiles like that – that hopes it might be me.

 _Patience_. He doesn't need to die _yet._ None of them do. Ra and Jayda and even Ivone – they'll all have to die eventually, if I want to make it home. But not yet. We can still help each other for a while.

I reach for my dagger as a gentle pinging fills the night air. Sure enough, the package floats right past the top of the hill. For a moment, I think that maybe Ra made a mistake – that maybe the parachute is intended for _us_ , and we won't be able to follow it anywhere – but then it floats off to my right. Somewhere down the slope, into the trees below. Ra and Jayda exchange a glance, and we silently head off in the direction of the parachute, our backpacks slung across our backs and our weapons in hand. I just hope whoever the parachute was intended for isn't too far away.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

I hear the pinging before Charlotte does. I'm on my feet quickly, my sharpened branch in my hand, before I remember what the pinging meant last year. There were parachutes – parachutes that brought gifts to some of the tributes. If that sound is nearby … Is that really what it means? Can they really have sent something to _us_?

"It's a parachute," Charlotte whispers, then corrects herself. "No, it's _two_ parachutes. Coming towards us." I hear them land nearby, and there's a rustle as Charlotte opens them. "There's a number one on this one," she whispers – in case there's someone nearby, maybe. "A loaf of bread and some crackers. And there's a note – a list."

I nod. "They sent lists last year, too – lists of the tributes who died that day. Are there six of them?" There have been six cannons so far, so if there are six tributes on the list, they probably match.

"Yeah, there are," Charlotte agrees. "D4F, D6F, D8M, D9M, D10F, D11M. That's Lexi, Elinor, Atleigh, Jim, Hannah, and Mantle."

I can't help a smile. She knows their names. All of them. I didn't realize she'd learned all of them. "What's in the other one?" I ask quietly.

"There's a two on it – must be for you." She opens it. "Some dried beef, some crackers, and … this one has a note, too."

That seems strange. "Why would they send us two lists?"

"It's not a list," she whispers.

There's a moment of silence. Then another. I shake my head. "So what is it?"

"Just one word: _Run._ "

* * *

 **Commander Phoenix LaVelle  
** **District Nine Escort**

They run. Of course they do. They're scared – just like Jim was when he heard Bentley's voice. They probably don't even know what they're running from. But it doesn't matter. Charlotte grabs their food, hands Julian the sticks they sharpened, and they're off. The easy prey just waiting for their predator to catch up.

I hate it.

It's part of the Game, of course, but it doesn't quite seem fair. None of this seems quite like it did last year. Yes, there was fighting at the start, but then Phoebe fell off a cliff. Jim fell off a cliff. And now a group of four is about to be chasing a blind boy through a forest. This isn't a fight to the death. It's a slaughter.

Maybe I got too close. Maybe I let Jim get to me. But seeing him lying there, helpless to do anything as Bentley reached down to kill him … that's not what I signed up for. It's not what _any_ of us signed up for.

"Are you all right?" Eve asks gently, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I know it's not easy, but…"

But _nothing_. This isn't easy – period. When I signed on for this job, I thought I would be serving the Capitol – just like I did during the war. I was eager. I was ready. Or, at least, I thought I was. Last year was hard, but this … and now Eve's the one comforting me. Lacey is still alive, while Jim is dead. But Atleigh is dead, too – killed by Mel's ally. None of this is simple. And none of it is easy.

I shake my head. "I'm going to bed." Mel is safe for now – at least, as safe as she can be. She's the only tribute I have left, and I have no desire to watch what's about to happen. I head out the door without another word and make my way back to District Nine's quarters. Back to the room Jim will never be returning to.

I shouldn't care. I told myself that last year. Don't get attached. They're going to die. But I did. And, despite knowing how it would feel, I got attached again this year. Jim is dead. Mel will probably die. And there's nothing I can do about it. Absolutely nothing.

* * *

 **Quick turnaround on this one - everything's always easier to write once the Games actually start, it seems. As several people noted last chapter, yes, it was a rather small bloodbath. That was deliberate. We figured it made sense for an earlier Games without a real "Career pack." But, hey, it's one more death than last time, and at least no one got blown up on their pedestals this year. So they're making progress. ;)**


	23. Choose

**Choose**

" _We pick and choose our battles and places to take a stand."_

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

Julian grips my hand tightly as the pair of us make our way through the forest. The moon barely provides enough light for me to avoid the trees around us – definitely not enough to avoid the roots on the ground. And Julian – he's just doing the best he can to keep up. "Wait," he gasps, giving my hand a squeeze.

I squeeze back. "We _can't_ wait. They're coming after us."

He pulls me to a stop. "No, _wait_. Think it through. _Who's_ coming after us?"

"I…" I have to admit, I'm not sure. "I don't know. But the note said to run."

"Exactly. A note that came from the Capitol. We're doing exactly what they want: running blindly away from … what? Who? How do we even know we're running the right way?"

"Well, the only tributes who would be armed would probably be Ra and his group. They'd be coming from the top of the hill. So I just figured … well, downhill."

"Downhill in a straight line – more or less," Julian points out. "That's where we've been going. If they're coming this way – if they saw that parachute – they'd go in a straight line, too – more or less."

I finally get it. What he's been trying to say all along. "So it's not how fast we run. It's _where_ we run. We should … what? Change direction?"

"Exactly. And if we get far enough away…"

"You want to double back? Head for the top of the hill?"

"Why not? As long as we're avoiding them, we might as well grab some weapons."

"You're assuming _they're_ the ones we're running from. If they're still at the top of the hill—"

"Then we have no idea who we're running from, so up is as good a direction as any."

"Okay," I agree. "Let's go." We take a hard left, as quickly as we can. I don't hear anything. Then again, I didn't hear anything before. Probably _wouldn't_ have heard anything, until it was too late. I just hope this is a better idea. I hope Julian was right.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I was wrong. Well, not exactly _wrong,_ per se, but I seem to have overestimated the amount of time the parachute would be in the air. How long we would be able to follow it before it sank below the trees, no longer visible at all. The pinging seems to have stopped, as well – or else it's too far away for any of us to hear it. But we keep pressing forward, because … well, because why not? There's still a chance we'll come across whoever the parachute was meant for.

And if we don't, we've still lost nothing. Nothing but a bit of sleep, I suppose, but we aren't exactly exhausted yet. After the initial battle, we had a relatively easy day. We can afford to spend a bit of the night out here, hunting for tributes, even if our first lead didn't quite pan out.

Hunting. That's as good a word as any, I suppose, for what we're doing. We have no way of knowing, of course, _who_ we're chasing after. But at least I have the comfort of knowing it probably isn't Charlotte. During the Games last year, the parachutes were sent to tributes the Capitol audience seemed to _like_. The boy from Twelve had proven himself willing to kill by the time he received his parachute. The pair from Ten, though the girl was a rebel, was providing a compelling narrative. They were an interesting pair to watch, even if the strictest loyalists may have wanted them dead the whole time. And the other parachute…

The other one – the first parachute – went to the boy from Eleven. A cripple. So maybe it's not impossible that they may have sent something to Charlotte and her blind partner. But I'm assuming they learned their lesson. That, this year, they'll be sending parachutes to tributes who show promise.

I even thought, for a moment, that perhaps the parachute was coming to us. That would have put something of a damper on my plan to follow it to its intended recipient, of course, but it would have done the group some good to remember that the Capitol was watching. To realize that they appreciated what we've done so far.

Of course, if the intention of the parachutes is to provide tributes with supplies that they need, I can certainly see why they chose not to send us anything at this time. We have pretty much everything we could ask for. Food. Water. Weapons. Everything except some indication of where the other tributes might be.

As for that … well, that's proving to be a bit difficult. Maybe they saw us coming and decided to run. But which way? If they ran, they could have gone in any direction. And it isn't as if we can track them in the dark. Not on such rocky terrain, where they were unlikely to have left any footprints. No, as much as I hate to admit it, we might have to wait until morning before turning up anything.

But I'm not about to suggest that. Not yet. The others believe I'm still following the parachute, and there's no harm in letting them believe that for a while yet. If we happen to find someone before dawn, all the better. If not, then I'll suggest getting some rest. But not until then. Not until I have to.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I don't know what Ra thinks he's following. I certainly can't see the parachute anymore, and the pinging stopped a while ago. Maybe he's just hoping we find _someone_ , but there's a part of me that would rather head back to the top of the hill and get some sleep, if we aren't going to find anything.

But I don't suggest that. Not yet. Not when he might still be following something. Besides, if I suggest going back now, I might appear weak. Or lazy. And it's not that I'm _tired_ , really – I just don't want to waste energy on what may easily turn out to be a wild goose chase.

But what if it doesn't?

"Do you see anything?" I ask Ra, knowing full well he doesn't. He can't. He can't see any more in this moonlight than I can, and all I can see are trees. But part of me wants to hear him admit it. This was _his_ grand idea, after all. Following the parachutes.

And, to be fair, it might not have been such a bad idea, if the tributes it was intended for had stayed a little bit closer to the top of the hill. As it is, they were too far away. To far to accurately follow a falling package to their location. All we got was a general idea of where they might be.

Or where they might have _been_. There's no way of knowing whether or not they're still there. They could easily have moved on by now. Ra smiles a little in the moonlight. "We'll find something," he assures me.

 _Something._ He's being vague, and that's not an accident. He realizes – he has to – that we have no way of actually tracking the parachute once it lands. That we'll just have to hope the tributes stayed in the area – or that there were others unlucky enough to stumble into the same spot. None of us say it. But all of us know it. He's just hoping this works out all right.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I just hope Bentley and Apollo are still okay. It seems like they've been gone for hours. Of course, we have no way of knowing how long it's been. But the sun is already gone from the sky. The moon is out, but it's still dark. Too dark. Will they be able to find their way back to us?

Will they even try?

I can't even say for certain what I would do in their place. If I'd been sent to scout out the path ahead, and it got dark, would I come back? Or would I simply stay where I was and wait for dawn? I hope that's the reason they haven't come back. I hope the most recent cannon wasn't either of theirs. But the simple fact is that I have no way to _know_.

Suddenly, there's a rustling in the reeds a little ways away. "It's me!" calls a quiet voice, as if he heard my heart beating faster. Bentley. So he's safe, at least. The cannon wasn't his. He makes his way forward through the swampy water. "Did you miss me?"

I smile a little. "More than you know. What'd you find?"

"This." He holds out a knife. "On a body at the base of the cliff. The boy from Nine. I guess he was trying to climb down, too, and…" His gaze strays to Phoebe. "How's she doing?"

"Better," I lie. "I think she's doing a little better than before." She's not. Her skin is cold to the touch, and she still hasn't woken up. Maybe she never will. But I don't say that. _Can't_ say that. Not to him. Not now.

Bentley nods a little. "I hope Apollo had better luck. He's not back yet?"

"Not yet," Darrin confirms. "Maybe that means he found something. Maybe we should just head that way, anyway – meet up with him."

I shake my head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Darrin shrugs. "Why? It's not as if he's going to make it back here without running into us. There's a cliff on one side and a swamp on the other – and he won't venture too far into the swamp if he knows what's good for him. If he's coming this way and we're going that way, we'll run into each other."

"Don't you think we should wait for daylight?" I asks quietly.

He doesn't. That much is obvious. But rushing too quickly into making a decision is what got us in this mess in the first place. What led to us ending up down here. What got Phoebe hurt. What could have gotten any of us _killed_. But that's on me. _I'm_ the one who picked the direction we ran at the start of the Games. I wouldn't exactly blame him for not listening to me now…

"Actually, I could use a bit of a rest," Bentley suggests, plopping down beside me. "I just ran most of the way back here. So maybe … well, just a little while?"

 _Thank you, Bentley._ Darrin nods, and the four of us settle in close to the cliff. "A little while," Darrin agrees. "Why don't you all get some rest. I'll take the first watch."

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

It was mostly a lie. I'm not _that_ tired. But, once I sit down next to the cliff face, my legs _are_ grateful for a chance to rest. And if it means waiting until morning … well, it's not as if we're pressed for time. It'll be easier to see the path in the morning, anyway. Sure, Apollo probably just followed the cliff wall, but there's no telling where there are rocks hidden under the marsh water. If one of us trips and gets hurt, there won't be enough of us left to help them, since we'll already have to carry Phoebe.

Phoebe. Part of me's surprised she's still alive. Of course, I only heard one cannon since I left the group, and that was the boy from Nine. So it shouldn't really be a surprise. But there was a part of me that was hoping…

What? That she would be dead? I feel terrible just for thinking it, but if the rest of us are going to have to carry her around when it's clear she's too badly hurt to recover … I don't know. Maybe it would be better if she was dead.

But I don't say that. _Can't_ say that. Not to these two. They've decided it's their job to take care of the rest of us – the younger ones – and since I'm benefiting from that, it's hard to argue. If they want to take care of me, then I have to accept that they're going to try to take care of Phoebe, too. Even if it puts the rest of us in danger.

That doesn't mean, though, that I have to stick around if things go bad. If some other tributes find us and Darrin and Ada decide to try to carry Phoebe, that doesn't mean I have to stay with them. Does it? That might be the _right_ thing to do. But you don't win the Games by doing the _right_ thing. You win the Games by doing precisely the opposite. By killing innocent kids. I've already killed once. _Leaving_ someone else to be killed – that shouldn't be a big deal, compared to that.

But it is. The boy from Nine was practically a stranger. Sure, I'd seen him around, but I don't even remember his name. Ada, Darrin, and Phoebe … they're my allies. My … my friends.

But they can't be. Not forever. Not if I want to survive. Not if I want to win.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

There's a part of me that doesn't want to go back to the others. That just wants to keep going this way, leave them behind, let them assume I've died. There was a cannon since I left them, after all. How are they going to know it wasn't mine?

Because what I've found is … well, it's not exactly promising. The marshland continues for quite a while before it finally turns into a forest. And, even here, the ground is rather squishy – certainly not the solid ground the others were hoping for. But it's better than sitting in marsh water.

But _getting_ here … well, that's going to be the tricky part. There were places where the marsh deepened, almost up to my shoulders. Sure, _I_ made it through. And the others are certainly tall enough. But if they're carrying Phoebe…

Phoebe. Maybe the cannon was hers. She didn't look too good when I left. Maybe it won't be a problem. Maybe she's…

Maybe she's dead. I can't believe I'm thinking that. That I'm almost _hoping_ for that. What does that say about _me_?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It says nothing about me … and everything about the situation I'm in. If this weren't a fight to the death – if she wasn't going to have to die, anyway – then I would definitely be on their side. I would fight to save her with every ounce of strength I had. Under normal circumstances…

But these _aren't_ normal circumstances. She _has_ to die eventually. It's only a matter of how much time and effort we waste trying to save her before she finally does. But Darrin and Ada and Bentley … will they understand that? How long will it be before they realize they can't save her?

I shake my head and turn back in their direction. Maybe it's already been decided. Maybe she's already dead. If not … well, if not, I'll have some convincing to do. Maybe. Maybe I'll try to persuade them. Maybe not. Maybe it would be easier to just leave. If they can't understand what they need to do, then maybe it would be better to get away now. While I still can.

I clench my fists and wade into the deeper water. Not yet. I can go back. Find out what the situation is. And then make my choice. It's not as if I have anything to lose by going back. Nothing but time. And time is something we're not exactly running short on.

Not yet, at least. There are still eighteen of us left. We can afford to be cautious. We can afford to take our time. But how long is that really going to last?

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

How long is he going to pretend he knows where he's going? I clutch my dagger tightly as the four of us plunge on into the forest. We brought plenty of weapons – those we could carry, as well as some knives stuffed into our packs – but it's beginning to look like we're not going to get the chance to use them – not for a while, at least.

"Wait!" Jayda calls suddenly. I bite back a groan as she stops by a tree. "Look at that."

"What?" I grumble. "Look at what? It's a tree – just like any of the other trees."

"Not _just_ like them," Ivone points out. "Look at the branches." Sure enough, a few of the branches are missing – broken off near the trunk of the tree. "Someone was here."

"Someone, or some _thing_ ," Ra offers. "Could have been an animal."

Jayda kneels down, picking up something from the base of the tree. A piece of brown paper, torn apart. "I don't think they're sending packages to animals. You were right about the parachute, but it looks like they're gone."

Of course they are. Of course they would be able to figure out our plan. Anyone with half a _brain_ could have figured out how easy it would be to follow the parachutes. "So we still have no idea where they are," I point out. "They could have gone anywhere."

"Maybe we should split up," Ivone suggests. "Scout out the different directions. They can't have gone far."

"How do we know that?" Jayda asks. "It's been a while since we saw the parachute. If they left here when they got it, they could be anywhere by now."

I roll my eyes. "So what's _your_ idea?"

"We stick together and head in the most likely direction. Splitting up isn't going to help us. Together, we're—"

"Loud," Ivone finishes. "That's what we are together, even if you manage to stop bickering. There are four of us. Anyone out here will see us coming – or hear us – a mile away. We should pair up – two and two – and head in different directions. At dawn, we meet up back at the top of the hill."

Jayda turns to Ra. "What do you think?"

She's probably hoping he'll tie the vote. Two for splitting up, two against. But, instead, he smiles. "I don't think any of the larger groups ran this way. The group of five was headed in the opposite direction. The group of three – we killed one of them, and they went the other way, too. So the largest group we're likely to come across is a group of two. Two of us should be able to handle anyone we might find."

Jayda nods reluctantly. She knows she's beaten. If she tries to argue with that, she looks like she's concerned two of us won't be able to hold our own. "Okay," she agrees. "Ivone, you're with me." And without another word, she heads off to the left.

"Looks like it's you and me, then," Ra smirks. I don't say anything. The two of us plunge on into the forest off to our right. I just hope we find something.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

I just hope they find something. Isaac is wound so tightly right now, I hate to think what might happen if he and Ra come back empty-handed. Jayda, on the other hand, seems content to take her time as the two of us head through the forest. And I have to admit, there's probably not much point in rushing. If someone is hiding nearby, the two of us might run right past them and never notice. If we could just wait until it's light…

But we can't. We agreed to meet back at the top of the hill at dawn. That was my idea, after all. The hill is really the only landmark we have, and dawn is the only reference we have for time. But once we're back there … then what? Do we spend another day at the top of the hill, waiting for a parachute we won't be able to follow? There has to be a better strategy than this.

If there is, though, I don't know what it is. This isn't the sort of strategy I'm used to. I'm used to smuggling. Hiding from others – not _looking_ for people who are hiding. "Hiding," I mumble. "If I were hiding, where would I go?"

"I'd go deeper into the forest," Jayda whispers. "Hope that whoever's looking would get tired and turn back."

I shake my head. "You've never really had to hide from anyone before, have you."

"No. So where would you go?"

"People don't stop looking," I explain. "Not if their jobs – or their _lives_ – depend on it. Whoever we're looking for, they know we're not going to stop. We _can't_ stop. So what if … what if they doubled back? If they figured out that _we're_ the ones looking for them, where's the one place we'd never think to look?"

"You think they went back to the top of the hill."

"It makes sense. If I was being chased, I'd want a weapon. Chances are, they didn't have a chance to get one at the beginning. If they've figured out we're gone…"

Jayda grins. "Brilliant!"

I nod. "Let's find Ra and Isaac and—"

Jayda shakes her head. "No time for that. They're too far away by now. And if you're right, whoever we're chasing won't stay at the top of the hill for long. We'll have to hurry."

It's hard to argue with any of that. I wish Isaac were with us, but maybe … well, maybe he'll think of the same thing. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there isn't anyone up there after all. Maybe they weren't thinking like a smuggler. But it's the best idea I've got. The best idea either of us have.

As quickly as we can, we race towards the top of the hill. My heart is finally pumping the way it used to with Ramsey. This is different than the fight at the beginning of the Games. This isn't a fight. It's a chase. The fact that I'm used to being on the _other_ side of a chase … maybe that doesn't matter. This finally feels familiar.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

At least this feels a little familiar. The swamp we're on the edge of is certainly nothing compared to the ocean near District Four, but at least it's water. The ground is soft and squishy, not like the hard rocks on the hill. And maybe the smell will be enough to keep some of the other tributes away. It won't deter anyone who's certain they'll find someone here, but as long as we don't give them a reason to think they will, we should be safe for a while.

For a while. Hopefully for the rest of the night, at least. Mel finally fell asleep a little while ago. She told me to wake her when I got tired, but I can stay awake for a while yet. There's a part of me that doesn't want to go to sleep – not yet, at least – because I know the sort of dreams that are waiting for me.

I used to have nightmares during the war, after my family split up to fight on opposite sides and shipped me off to live with my uncle. I dreamed that I saw them die – imagined it so vividly that sometimes I woke up convinced they were dead. But I never actually saw them die. This … this is different. Not only did I see Atleigh die. _I'm_ the one who killed him. I can only imagine what sort of nightmares are waiting for me once I close my eyes.

Mel doesn't exactly seem to be sleeping peacefully, either. She's tossing and turning – whether from a nightmare or simply because it's hard to find a good position on the ground with all the tree roots, I'm not sure. Finally, she sits up, rubbing her eyes, trembling a little. "I … why don't you get some sleep? I can't."

I scoot a little closer to her. "I don't think I'd be able to, either."

Mel raises an eyebrow. "Really? You?"

I can't help a smile. Apparently, I've been acting confident enough for her to assume it doesn't bother me – killing that boy. And I'm not sorry. _Can't_ be sorry. His death is the only reason we have our supplies. The only reason we're armed. The only reason we might stand a chance against any other tributes who happen to find us tonight.

But that doesn't mean I'll ever forget how it felt to hold his neck in my hands. To choke the life out of him. To feel his body go limp while I squeezed harder, harder…

Mel lays a hand on my shoulder, and I realize I'm shaking, too. I nod a little. "Yeah. Me. Tell you what – next time, you can do it."

She lets out a nervous giggle, as if she's not quite sure whether I'm kidding or not. Hell, _I'm_ not quite sure whether I'm kidding or not. If we happen across another tributes and she wants to make the kill, instead, I'm not exactly going to stop her. But would I really _force_ her to?

No. No, what would be the point in that? It would only convince the Capitol that I don't really have the nerve. They wouldn't take kindly to a tribute who chickened out after his first kill. Besides, the way that felt – the way I _feel_ … I wouldn't wish that on her. I wouldn't wish this on anyone.

* * *

 **Phoebe Linden, 12  
** **District Eleven**

I wouldn't wish this on anyone. I remember at the reaping, when Mantle sprang up to volunteer, wishing someone would do the same for me. That someone would step up and take my place. I didn't really _expect_ anyone to, but that didn't stop me from hoping for it. But no one did. And now … I don't know if I'd want them to.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to die. But if I was watching this happen to someone else – knowing it should have been happening to me – I don't know if I could stand it.

Darrin holds me tightly as we huddle against the cliff. He's trying to keep me warm. Trying to comfort me. But we all know what's coming. We can't stay here forever. The only question is whether they'll bring me with them, or leave me here, or…

I'm trembling as Darrin wraps his arms around me. He won't leave me. I know he won't. But I don't want him to die because of me. I don't want _any_ of them to die. It's not that _I_ want to die, either, but, really, what chance do I have now? Every time I try to move, pain fills my body. My back feels like it's been shattered. Maybe it has. My head aches, and every time I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. I don't want to die, but I want the pain to stop. I want this to end.

I guess I never really imagined it would end like _this_. During training, I imagined fighting with the other tributes. Pictured them attacking us. Trying to kill us. I never thought…

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I never thought I would end up alone this soon. Each of us – Jim, Mantle, and I – knew the others would have to die eventually, if one of us wanted to make it home. I always knew I would be alone sooner or later. But not this soon. Not like this. I never pictured sitting alone in a swamp in the dark, afraid to go to sleep because someone might find me and…

And kill me. It would be so easy. Someone already knows where I am, after all. Whoever killed Jim could come back at any time to kill me, too. I wish I knew which way they went. Then I could go the other way. But if I take off now – if I start running – I have a fifty-fifty chance of running straight into them.

And I don't _want_ to run into them. I know I should be angry. I should want to kill them for what they did to Jim – or kill the girl from Two for what she did to Mantle. But I don't. I never did. I never wanted to kill any of them. And, more likely than not, they didn't really want to kill anyone, either. The girl from Two volunteered for this, sure, but she only went after Mantle because he had attacked Hannah. And Jim … well, if I saw two older, stronger tributes climbing down a cliff, I might think that shouting and trying to make them fall was a better tactic than waiting for them to finish climbing down safely.

No, I don't blame them – even if that's what the audience wants to see. What the Capitol wants to see. They want us to hate each other, but, try as I might, I just … can't. The other tributes – they're just kids. Would I be doing anything different if I were in their position?

But I'm not in their position. I _wish_ I was in their position. Whoever killed Jim ran off with his knife – the only weapon we had. At least they have a way to defend themselves. If someone finds me here, I'm as good as dead.

So I'll just have to make sure no one finds me.

Easier said than done, of course. But if I'm going to get some sleep – and I should probably try to while it's still dark – then I can at least make sure I'm a bit harder to find. Carefully, slowly, I slip as far into the marsh as I dare, leaving my head on the shore as the rest of my body sinks below the surface of the marsh. The water seeps through my clothes. It smells awful. But at least no one will see me – not unless they're looking for me.

And let's be honest. Who's looking for me? Whoever killed Jim? They could have come back to find me by now. Anyone else who wanted to make it down here would have to climb down the same damn cliff that got Jim killed. Certainly not something I'd want to do in the dark. No, I'm probably safe for now. At least, as safe as I can hope to be.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

We're probably as safe as we can hope to be. But that doesn't stop me from opening my eyes and glancing around frantically every time the wind rustles the branches of the trees. Rick and I settled down for the night a while ago – it feels like hours – but despite Rick's offer to take the first watch, I haven't been able to get to sleep. Maybe it's the weird noises in the forest. Maybe it's just the thought that, if anyone happens to find us here, we're all but defenseless.

I sit up a little, and Rick chuckles. "Still can't sleep, huh?"

I glare. "And I suppose you'd be able to."

Rick shrugs. "Like a baby."

I roll my eyes. "Go for it, then. You sleep, I'll watch."

Rick smiles and lies down. "If you say so. Wake me when you get tired."

Tired. I'm already tired. We both are. Tired and cold and hungry. But we don't have any food – or anything to use for shelter – so we might as well get some sleep. And if I can't, then maybe Rick should.

He closes his eyes, and, soon, he's sleeping soundly. Figures. I stretch my arms, rub my eyes, and finally lean back against a tree, ready for a long night. I should have known better than to think I'd be able to sleep, after what I saw this morning. Lexi is dead. Atleigh is dead. But Rick – he was Atleigh's friend. Or at least his ally. Doesn't it bother him at all?

Would it bother him if it was me who had died?

I clench my fists tightly. It doesn't matter if it would bother him, because I'm _not_ going to die. Not here. Not now. If someone finds us, then…

Then what? I'll fight? Fight with what? We could break a few branches off the trees, I suppose, but, right now, that noise would probably attract more attention than it's worth. It's so quiet out here. I expected … I don't know what I expected, I guess. Some sort of animals. Some birds, or at least some insects. I knew better than to expect the same factory noises that constantly fill District Three, but I was picturing more … more _life._

Maybe that's the point. Maybe they left the forest barren on purpose – to remind us that nothing's going to live here for long. Especially us. In only a short while, none of us will be left in the arena. Twenty-three of us will be dead. One of us will be safe. One of us will be going home. I just hope that it'll be me.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

I just hope we're close. Charlotte keeps telling me we're near the top of the hill, but whether we _actually_ are, or whether she's just trying to encourage me … well, I don't know. I hope we're close, though. My legs are beginning to ache, and I don't know how much longer I can keep focusing on my footsteps, trying desperately not to trip over the rocks in my path.

Finally, though, the ground levels out. "We're here," Charlotte whispers. Just then, there's a rustling – the pounding of feet off to my left. "Down!" Charlotte hisses, pulling me to the ground. But, after a moment, her grip on my hand relaxes. "Looks like someone else had the same idea we did. Jae, the boy from Six – just ran off with an armful of stuff."

I can't help a little chuckle. "Sounds like he's got the right idea – grab some stuff and get out of here before the others get back. Let's go." We make our way over to the pile of supplies, which, according to Charlotte, the others have neatly sorted. She hands me a spear to replace the sticks we sharpened – I must have dropped them at some point along the way – and gives my hand a squeeze. "I got some more food, and a dagger for myself. Let's go."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. We take off down the slope again, in a different direction, as far as I can tell. After a little while, Charlotte slows down. "Okay. Okay, I don't think anyone's following us."

I nod a little. Why would they be? They have no way of knowing we were at the top of the hill. And even if they figure it out, there's no telling which way we've gone. The rocks may be frustrating to navigate, but they're certainly better than last year's sand. Sand that made the tributes' footprints terribly obvious. Some of them managed to use that to their advantage, doubling back over their tracks and leaving false trails. But others weren't so clever. Or so lucky.

Lucky. I suppose we've gotten pretty lucky so far. No one's found us yet, _and_ Charlotte and I each got a parachute. That still surprises me a bit. I mean, they told us last year that the parachutes were sent to the tributes who were the Capitol's favorites. Seriously? _Charlotte and I_ are the Capitol's favorites? I have to admit, they have pretty good taste, but it's not really something I expected. Probably not something they would have done if they knew the story behind how I lost my sight.

Or maybe … maybe they would. Because last year, they sent a package to the pair from Ten. She'd been trying to hide her rebel connections, but the boy from Eleven hadn't – and they sent him a package, too. Maybe there are enough people in the Capitol who are willing to look past that. Who feel sorry for us.

But not sorry enough to really do anything about us. Sure, they sent us a parachute, but we're still trapped in a death match. If they really wanted to do something for us, they'd try to get us out of here. I know better than to think that's going to happen, of course. And I certainly know better than to say so. Just because they sent us a gift doesn't erase the fact that we're still at their mercy. And so are our families.

So I keep my mouth shut – for their sake. I'll probably die in here, but I'm not giving the Capitol a reason to drag my family down with me. For now, that's all the victory I need.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

For now, this axe is all the victory I need. I may not have gotten anything at the start of the Games, but now I have a weapon – and the food I managed to grab from the pile. They weren't considerate enough to leave any of the backpacks behind for me to carry the supplies off in, so I couldn't take a lot. But I suppose I should just be grateful they weren't there.

I hold my breath as I sneak back into the forest. This time, I know exactly where I'm going. She probably thought I couldn't see her – the girl in the tree. And I didn't at first. But I _did_ see the places on the tree where she broke off the branches. Then, once I knew where to look, I could see her in the tallest branches. Sleeping – or maybe just holding still and hoping I wouldn't see.

I pretended not to. I wandered off in the other direction, then quickly doubled back to the top of the hill. I just hope she's still there. If I can cut the tree down, then…

Then what? Then maybe she'll die in the fall and I won't have to worry about fighting her? That doesn't sound very brave, but … well, bravery doesn't win the Games. No, bravery is what convinces you that running across the circle at the start of the Games to try to reach your ally is a good idea. Bravery is what gets you killed, what leaves your ally alone to come up with his own plans. Bravery is the reason I was wandering through the forest instead of sleeping soundly with Elinor keeping watch. She was brave – and it got her killed.

I won't make the same mistake.

It doesn't take me long to find my way back to the tree. It was just on the edge of the treeline. Maybe she thought it was a good place to be able to survey the arena. Maybe she assumed anyone looking for tributes would be hunting deeper inside the forest. Maybe she was right – at least about the others. I haven't seen anyone else since leaving the top of the hill when the other two arrived. I couldn't tell who they were, but I wasn't about to fight two of them. I'm not stupid.

I can't afford to be stupid.

I creep closer to the tree. The girl in the branches doesn't budge. Maybe she's asleep. But she probably won't be for long. Light is starting to creep over the hill. I hadn't realized it was that late. That early. If I'm going to do something, I have to do it now. I can't afford to waste any more time. As hard as I can, I swing the axe into the tree.

* * *

 **Aria Barker, 16  
** **District Seven**

It takes me a moment to figure out why the tree is shaking. But once I do, I can't help a scream. "Shit!" The tree is wobbling wildly. The boy's almost cut halfway through the trunk. It's only a matter of time before it falls. I have to think quickly. I have to _think_.

There aren't any good options. If I wait for it to fall, I'll probably die. Even if I survive the fall, if I'm injured, I'll be a sitting duck – and he has an axe. If I start climbing down but get caught in the branches when the tree falls … same thing. I won't make it to the ground before he finishes cutting through the trunk – not unless he slows down, which seems unlikely. There aren't any other trees close enough for me to climb into their branches – or even close to jump into. This … well, this sucks.

As quickly as I can, I take one of the branches I sharpened earlier – thankfully, those haven't fallen – and hurl it at the boy. But it gets caught in the branches on the way down. Shit. I figured climbing higher into the branches would be an advantage. I thought it would make it harder for other tributes to spot me. How did he find me?

Okay. Okay, that doesn't matter right now. His axe swings again – a bit more frantically this time, now that he knows I'm awake. I start climbing down. Maybe I can scare him away. He has no way of knowing I don't have a weapon. "I'd start running if I were you!" I call, hoping my voice doesn't sound as desperate as I feel. "I'm gonna kill you when I get down there!"

 _If_ I get down there. He doesn't say it, but he doesn't have to. He doesn't have to say anything. He just keeps chopping away at the base of the trunk. He's got terrible form, but that just means he'll ache more later. Certainly won't stop the tree from coming down. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll come down right on top of him…

I freeze as the tree tilts this way and that. My climbing is just making it fall faster. The boy takes a step away. Then another. As if that's really going to help him if the tree falls his way.

But it doesn't. It doesn't fall directly away from him, either – as it would if he knew what he was doing – but it falls at enough of an angle that he can scramble out of the way. I cling to the trunk as tightly as I can, but the jolt still rips the tree from my grasp as it crashes to the forest floor. A branch lands on top of me. Then another. _Damn it._ I try to push them away, but that only sends pain shooting up from my ribs. Blood. Another one of the branches punctured my side. Not enough to kill me, but…

But certainly enough to hold me here. Okay. Okay, it's not over yet. Maybe the boy ran when he realized how loud the tree was. He's from District Six – surely he wasn't expecting that noise. Maybe he figures someone else will find me and finish me off. Maybe—

But then I see him. And he sees me. The axe comes swinging down through the branches, towards my head. I close my eyes. But that doesn't—

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

 _Boom._ The cannon shakes me awake with a start. It's nearly morning. Did Dina really let me sleep that long? I guess so. She's still sitting next to me, her back against the tree, staring off into the distance. "You all right?" I ask quietly.

She nods. "The cannon wasn't mine, if that's what you were wondering."

I smirk. "Nah. If anyone found us, they'd kill me first. I'm bigger."

"I was awake."

"Any idea whose it was?"

"I heard a noise off in that direction." She nods to her left. "Like a … a tree falling, I guess. I don't know. I've never really heard a tree fall before, but it was louder than I thought."

I shrug. "Maybe it was a big tree."

"Maybe."

"Pretty quiet night otherwise?"

She nods. "A little too quiet. I don't like it here." Then, realizing what she just said, she clarifies. "I mean, obviously, I don't like it in the arena, but the forest … it gives me the creeps."

I shrug. "Want to head back up the hill?"

"Not on your life."

"Then forest it is – or whatever comes after the forest. You sure you don't want some sleep?"

She shakes her head. "No. We should try to find some food. I haven't heard any birds or squirrels or anything, but…"

"But you figure there has to be _something_ , if they want us to live long enough to kill each other," I finish.

"Doesn't sound so nice when you put it like that."

No. No, it doesn't. But, despite the name, if we all die of hunger, they don't have much of a game. So if that was a tree that Dina heard fall – and if that was the cause of the cannon we heard – then it probably wasn't an accident. Someone knocked the tree over. Someone else died. We have no way of knowing who – just that neither of them was us. And, for now, that'll have to be enough.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I wish we had some way of knowing whose cannon that was. It shouldn't really matter, but I can't help wondering whether it was Jim's. Whether he's still alive. I have no idea which way he ran from the top of the hill. If he was nearby – or near that crash we heard – was the cannon his? Or was he the one who killed someone else?

I can't really picture him killing anyone. Then again, before yesterday, I probably wouldn't have been able to picture Jethro killing anyone. But he did. He could. Maybe we all can, when it comes down to it. Maybe we're all capable of killing.

I hope I am.

That … that just sounds wrong. I don't _want_ to be capable of killing. But I don't want to die, either. And those are the only two options. I grip my knife tightly and glance over at Jethro, who shrugs. He hasn't been able to get to sleep, either, apparently. I dozed off for a moment, I thought, but then the cannon…

The seventh cannon so far. Seven tributes dead. Seventeen of us left. And Jethro and I are still alive. Not only alive, but in a pretty good position. We have food. Water. Weapons.

"Hungry?" Jethro asks quietly, as if he's worried that whoever just killed someone might be nearby. But that doesn't seem likely. Surely we would've heard something. There was a crash, but that seemed pretty far away.

Still, that doesn't mean there aren't any other tributes near us. There's no harm in being cautious. I nod back quietly, and Jethro hands me a bit of bread and some nuts. We both drink a little from the stream, glancing around silently in the early morning light. We've been in the arena almost a whole day. It feels like a lifetime already.

Jethro glances behind us. At the marsh. He doesn't have to say anything – I know he's curious about what might be out there. Maybe he thinks it would be a good hiding place … or a good place for an ambush. "Can you swim?" he asks quietly.

I can – at least a little. When my family was hiding in the wilderness during the war, there was a lake. I doubt I can swim as well as _he_ can, but I can keep myself afloat if the water is calm. "Yes," I nod, not exactly eager to volunteer any information about _how_ I learned. "Why?"

Jethro shrugs. "Good to know. If we stick around here and find ourselves caught between some angry tributes and a deep marsh … good to know that the marsh is an option."

Fair enough. But there's something he glossed over. "If we stick around here," I repeat. "You think we should?"

"I don't see why not. We've got everything we could want. Food. Water. Weapons. A good hiding place. Not that I want to stay here forever, mind you, but it's not a bad place to come back to when we need to rest. And we could probably store our supplies here – in the marsh or something – so that when we're _not_ here…"

"We're not as tempting a target," I finish.

Jethro grins. "Now you're catching on."

Maybe I am. But I don't know how I feel about that. Thinking like Jethro – Is that a good thing? But that's not really the question I should be asking. I should be asking whether it's going to help keep me alive. And I think … I think the answer to that is yes.

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

I'm hoping I might get a different answer from the others now that it's light out. I can understand not wanting to go anywhere last night – and, in hindsight, it was probably the right call, what with the marsh and the slippery rocks – but now that we can see the path clearly, there's not much of an excuse for staying here. It's not as if there's anything here that could help us. None of the plants in the marsh look particularly appetizing. The tops of the reeds or flowers on the lily pads might be edible in a pinch, but I'm not certain. And, even if they are, they probably aren't very filling.

No, we should go. Just as I'm about to wake Ada – who _finally_ managed to fall asleep – and Bentley – who's been asleep for some time – a cannon fires. Both of them practically jump up, startled. I have to admit, it scared me, too. That's the seventh cannon so far. Only seventeen of us are left.

And we're all still alive.

Well, technically, I don't _know_ that. Apollo is out there somewhere. But just as I'm starting to wonder whether the cannon might have been his, he comes into view in the distance, off to our right. I breathe a sigh of relief as Bentley points in his direction. "Look!" he whispers, and Ada grins. We're all alive.

I cradle Phoebe as gently as I can as Apollo makes his way towards us. Yes, we're all still alive. But Phoebe won't be for long if we don't find some sort of help. But what can we hope to find out here? I don't really have an answer to that, so I'm glad no one's asked. We'll just have to hope we come across something.

"The marsh turns into a forest a ways in that direction," Apollo offers. "It's not that far, but between here and there, the marsh gets pretty deep. I made it, but…" He trails off, glancing at Phoebe, leaving the rest of that unsaid. He made it, but how are we going to get her through? His shirt is soaked clear up to his neck. If the water's that deep…

"Maybe we should stay here, then," Ada offers quietly. "If we can't all go, then we can send one or two people out to look for food, until…"

Until what? Until they find something that might help Phoebe? Or until she dies? I'm not sure which one she meant, but the first one doesn't seem likely. What are we going to find? She said last night that if we get a parachute, they could send something for Phoebe, but are we really going to get anything if we just sit around here?

Apollo shakes his head. "Ada, we can't stay here."

"And we can't leave."

"No, we need to leave," Bentley interrupts, his voice suddenly urgent.

Ada doesn't notice his tone. "We can't just—"

"No. We have to. Now. We have to leave. Right. Now."

"Why?"

"Look."

* * *

 **Titus Taveras  
** **District Two Escort**

I was wondering how long it would be before one of them noticed the snake. It's been slowly slithering through the marsh towards them ever since they started arguing. The Gamemakers want to get them moving – and they don't particularly care if one or two of them get bitten in the process. Why should they? There are plenty of other tributes in the arena.

Including, surprisingly enough, both of mine. Jayda and Ivone reached the top of the hill a few minutes after Julian and Charlotte left, but without a way to tell which way they might have gone – or even if they were ever there – they decided to settle down for the rest of the night. Isaac and Ra, meanwhile, have found nothing. Not that I'm terribly surprised. They're in the same general area as Rick and Dina, but without something to follow…

It wasn't a terrible idea – Ra's plan to follow the parachutes. If they'd been going to someone who hadn't gone so far from the top of the hill, they might have been able to follow them. Or if Charlotte and Julian hadn't taken the advice to run – or had kept running in the same direction. Any one of those things could have changed the outcome of the chase. But, as it was, their quarry escaped them.

Their quarry. Julian is still alive. I have to admit, I'm a little impressed that he suggested doubling back to get weapons. Maybe I underestimated him. But he can't keep running forever. It was a good idea, but ideas won't do him much good when he's forced into an actual fight. As soon as he actually has to defend himself, he's as good as dead.

But for now, he's safe. Jae is the only other tribute in the same area, and he's headed away from them. Away from everyone. He seemed a bit disappointed not to find anything useful on Aria's body, but he already has plenty of supplies. He'll probably be safe for a little while.

Can't really say the same for the larger group, but it's their own damn fault for staying put – and then taking too long to argue about whether they should stay put even longer. The five of them are perfectly still – frozen, almost – as the snake slithers closer and closer. It's big – more of a sea serpent, perhaps, than a snake. Not sure where the Gamemakers cooked that one up, but it's ten meters long, at least, with jaws big enough to close around a tribute's body and fangs that are probably poisonous.

Now they have to move. The only real question is how many of them will be able to outrun the snake. It won't be long before we find out, at any rate. They may be trying not to startle the snake with any sudden movements, but they won't be able to hold still forever. It's only a matter of time.


	24. A Memory

**A Memory**

" _I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. When's it gonna get me? In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me? If I see it comin', do I run or do I let it be?"_

* * *

 **Darrin Tunell, 18  
** **District Ten**

I see it before any of them do. How this is going to end. There are only two ways this plays out. Either we try to run, and we all die – or most of us, depending on what the Gamemakers want – or … or it can just be one of us.

It can just be me.

An odd sensation comes over me as the snake slithers closer. Closer. A strange sense of … calmness, maybe. Almost peace. As slowly as I can, I lay Phoebe down behind me. Well within Ada's reach. She catches my gaze. "Don't," she whispers. "Darrin, don't."

But there's something else in her eyes. Gratitude. She realizes what I'm about to do – and why. And there's a part of her – even if she can't admit it – that's grateful. Because if it's me … then it doesn't have to be her. "Take care of them," I whisper, and manage to smile a little.

Then I leap at the snake.

It's easier than I thought to get my arms around its neck. Then again, it probably wasn't expecting anyone to try something like this. The Gamemakers were probably expecting us to run. And that's exactly what the others do. Ada scoops up Phoebe, and the four of them take off into the marsh. The snake tries to slither after them, but my feet find the bottom of the swamp, holding myself – and the snake – in place.

But not for long. Once it recovers from the shock of being tackled by a tribute less than half its size, the snake begins to thrash this way and that. Almost like a horse – trying to throw me from its back. But I hold on. I've had practice. I never knew it, but all those years around horses and cows have prepared me for this. It's all been leading to this.

My whole life has been leading to this.

It's only once the snake finally manages to ram itself against the side of the cliff, nearly throwing me, that I realize I'm laughing. This … this is what I was meant for. What I was _born_ for. It's crazy. It's almost ridiculous. But this is _fun_.

But it's only fun for a moment. As if irritated by my laughter, the snake dives underwater. I barely have a chance to take a deep breath before I'm submerged. _Shit._ I can swim a little – there are plenty of watering holes in District Ten that have given me the opportunity to learn – but if I let go of the snake…

Finally, though, I have to. The snake keeps diving deeper. Deeper. If I don't let go, I'll drown. At last, I release my grip on the snake and kick my way to the surface. My lungs feel like they're about to burst by the time I finally break the water. I gasp and sputter for a moment before realizing the snake is still right beside me.

This time it's the one that lunges. Its jaws wrap around my chest. Huh. It could have gone for my neck. Maybe they figured that was too quick. The jaws clamp down, and I feel something pop. Something else cracks. I'm not entirely sure what. It hurts too much. I don't dare look. Then the snake swings its head, and suddenly I'm flying. Flying towards the cliff. I close my eyes as I slam face-first into the rocks.

Pain. For a moment, that's all I can feel. I'm lying face-up in the marsh again. When I open my eyes, I can see the snake – staring down at me. As if it was waiting for me to look at it before…

My gaze strays to the direction where the others disappeared. They're gone. They're safe. I manage one last smile. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

 _Boom._ The cannon sounds. None of us are exactly surprised, but it still startles us. But we keep running. Ada is carrying Phoebe, lagging behind me and Apollo, who leads the way through the marsh. I know I should slow down. I should try to help her. She can't carry Phoebe forever. Maybe she's stronger than I thought – or maybe Phoebe's lighter – but she can't keep going like this for long.

I should stop. I should help. But my legs won't let me. I stagger forward through the water that's slowly rising up to my chest. I glance back long enough to see that Ada has slung Phoebe over her shoulders, hoping that'll keep her safe from the marsh water. As if she isn't already completely covered in it. Apollo is already far ahead of us, wading through the water. But it's only up to his shoulders now. He was right about it not being deep for long.

I stumble after him, gasping for breath. My legs ache. My mouth is full of swamp water. Anyone nearby would be able to hear us splashing. But that doesn't matter now. All that matters is getting away from the snake. The snake that…

The snake that killed Darrin. There's no avoiding that thought now. The cannon sounded. He's dead. But the truth is he was dead the moment he charged at the snake. He knew it. And he did it anyway. He sacrificed himself for us. Now it's up to us to make sure that sacrifice wasn't for nothing.

Finally, the water beings to grow shallower again. As soon as it's at my knees, I stop. Rest. Breathe. Apollo is waiting for us up ahead a little.

 _Us_. I glance behind me just as Ada stumbles forward to join me, Phoebe still dangling across her back. "Help me," she gasps, just before dropping to her knees. Apollo and I rush to help, and together we drag Phoebe onto dry land. Coughing, gasping, the three of us catch our breaths. If anyone found us right now, we'd be dead. Helpless. Too exhausted to resist.

But no one finds us. There doesn't seem to be anyone around. No one except us. I can see trees in the distance, and what was a cliff only a little ways back becomes a sloping hill – still steep, but definitely not the sheer cliff face we had to climb down. If only we'd known at the start of the Games. All we had to do was run a little farther this way before…

I close my eyes, still gasping. That doesn't matter now. _Can't_ matter now. What's done is done. Darrin is dead. We're alive. Nothing we can do can change that now.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

There's nothing we can do now. Nothing we could have done. I close my eyes, leaning back against the solid ground. Solid ground at last. I never thought I'd be grateful for something so simple. I'm cold. Wet. Hungry. But at least I'm alive. _We're_ alive. We. Now that it's over, I … I'm glad I went back to them. If they didn't know it was safe to run this way, they might _all_ have died, instead of…

Instead of just Darrin. Putting it like that sounds awful, but the truth is this could have been worse. A lot worse. Not that I'm about to say that to any of the others. Ada is crying. Bentley is almost in tears. Phoebe is … well, Phoebe doesn't seem aware of anything that's going on. Maybe she's the lucky one.

No. No, _we're_ the lucky ones. Because as much as this hurts, at least we still have a chance. _I_ still have a chance.

Okay. Okay, breathe. I just need to breathe. Even that hurts. My whole body is sore. But I'm sure the others feel the same way. They can't have gotten any more sleep than I did. And even if they did … well, we just ran for our lives from a giant snake. I'd say we've earned a little rest.

But only a little. We can't stay here forever – just like we couldn't stay in the swamp forever. Surely they've figured it out – that the Gamemakers sent the snake after us because we weren't being interesting enough. Because we were sitting around in a swamp doing nothing instead of looking for food or water or other tributes.

So we can't stay here long, either. Running for our lives might have earned us a little time to recover, but not much. So we might as well use it. I sit up a little. "We should try to … to find some water," I manage to gasp out before I start coughing. Struggling to breathe.

Bentley nods a little. "Right. Water. We just left a sea snake in a marsh, and you – you want to find water."

I shake my head. "That's not what I meant. I meant … well, we can't just stay here." But they're not listening. And neither is my body. When I try to stand, my legs feel like jelly, and I quickly collapse again. "Okay," I concede. "Yeah, we need to rest first."

Ada bursts out laughing. Exactly what's so funny, I'm not sure. Maybe she's starting to lose it. Maybe we all are. Maybe she's just tired. I know I am. I feel like I could sleep for a week. I close my eyes. But is it safe to sleep here?

"It's okay," Ada whispers, giving me a pat on the shoulder. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch. I'll take care of you. That's what … what Darrin said to do. To take care of you. I'll take care of all of you."

Sure. Right. We both know she won't be able to take care of us forever. At least, I'm pretty sure she still knows that. I'm not really sure what anyone knows anymore. Darrin knew he was going to die, but he charged at the snake, anyway. We all know Phoebe's going to die, but we keep trying to save her. Maybe it isn't as clear as I thought. Maybe it doesn't matter. Either way, I'm too tired to argue. I can already feel myself drifting off to...

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

He's already drifting off to sleep. I don't know how he can do that, really. There's a part of me that's jealous. But if I was asleep, there wouldn't be anyone to keep watch. No one to take care of them. That's my job. That's what Darrin told me to do. The last thing he told me to do. So I have to try…

"Ada, are you all right?" Bentley's voice. He's kneeling beside me.

I laugh a little. No. No, I'm not all right. None of us are all right. We'll never be all right again. We got away from the snake, but there's still the rest of the arena. The rest of the Games. The rest of the tributes who are trying to kill us. Trying to kill _them._ Phoebe and Bentley and Apollo. I have to protect them.

I have to.

"It was his decision," Bentley offers quietly. "He didn't have to charge the snake. He made a choice."

He's right. And maybe that's supposed to make me feel better. But it doesn't. If anything, it makes it worse. Because Phoebe … at least what happened to her was an accident. We can blame that on stupid, random chance. Darrin … he chose to attack the snake. Chose to _die_. Because he wanted to save _us_. How are we supposed to live with that?

Finally, Bentley closes his eyes, but I can tell he's not really asleep. Not that I think I would be able to, either. Maybe it's a good thing I offered to keep watch. I don't think I'd be able to sleep, anyway. Might as well keep an eye out for other tributes. But what happens if someone _does_ find us? There's nowhere to run – and I doubt any of us would be able to make it far at the moment. There's nowhere to hide. And the only other option is to fight.

But we don't have anything to fight with. Well, Bentley has the knife he found, but that's not much. Certainly not enough to defend ourselves if a group of tributes with swords and axes and spears finds us. I'm shaking as I tuck my knees to my chest, slowly rocking back and forth, trying to keep warm. I'm wet. I'm cold. And I have no idea what to do next.

But I have to be strong. I have to take care of the others. Darrin told me to. And I won't – I _can't_ – let him down.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

It's well past dawn when Isaac and Ra return to the top of the hill, but I can tell by the look on Isaac's face that the extra time didn't give them any more success than us. There have been two cannons since we split up, but, from the look of it, neither of them was Ra or Isaac's doing.

Then again, neither of the cannons _belonged_ to Ra or Isaac, either – or to Jayda or me. Eight tributes are dead. A third of the tributes in the arena. And there are still four of us left in our group. We haven't lost anyone since the first few moments of the Games. That has to count for something, doesn't it?

Something. But not much, if we don't get to work soon. Jayda and I have been sleeping in what we figured were roughly two-hour shifts since returning to the top of the hill and finding no one. We've been eating, too – there's plenty of food, after all, to last us through the Games. So both of us are relatively well-rested and well-fed, but Isaac and Ra look like they didn't stop all night. Isaac wouldn't want to, of course. And Ra … well, he was probably too proud to admit just how tired he was. But, as soon as they reach the top of the hill, they both settle down next to the pile of weapons and start digging through their bags for food.

Jayda lets them eat their fill before suggesting that maybe they should get some sleep. That earns a reluctant nod from both of them. "I take it you didn't find anything, either," Isaac grumbles.

"Nothing," I admit. "But we still have time. There are sixteen of us left."

"And we have no idea where _any_ of the others are," Isaac points out.

Jayda shrugs. "I'm open to suggestions. But splitting up didn't really seem to help."

No. It didn't. Two of us are probably just as likely to frighten away any nearby tributes as four of us are. I was hoping that two groups would be able to cover more ground, but the odds of finding someone in the dark were just too slim. But are we really going to have any more luck in daylight? How did the tributes find each other last year?

Then again, most of the tributes last year weren't actively _looking_ for each other. Are we going about this the wrong way? Should we simply wait here and see who comes to us? If I was right about the tributes we were chasing last night returning here to find weapons – and, from the look of the pile when we arrived, I _was_ right – then we should have stayed. Should have been here waiting for the other tributes when they arrived.

"We should leave a guard," I suggest. "When we leave again, when we go looking for other tributes, we should leave someone here – to kill anyone who tries to sneak back here to get weapons while we're gone."

Jayda nods a little. "Are you volunteering?"

Shit. _Was_ I volunteering? I didn't mean to. I don't want to stay here _alone_. What if more than one tribute comes back at the same time, or a group of them comes together? Would I really be able to handle more than one? But I don't want to seem like I'm questioning my own abilities. "Maybe we should take turns," I suggest. "But, sure, I'd be willing to take the first shift – when you're ready to get going again."

When they're ready. Chances are, we'll never _really_ be ready. It's been nearly a whole day since I killed the girl from Four, and I still can't really say I'm ready to kill again. Her body is gone – they must have removed the bodies while we were away – but the memory … I don't think it will ever leave.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I don't think that memory will ever leave me. The girl from Seven, staring up at me, watching as my axe came down towards her head. I took off running immediately after the cannon sounded, of course. Other tributes could almost certainly hear the tree fall, and might be coming after me. Then again, if _I_ heard the sound of a giant tree falling, would _I_ want to run towards it?

No. But I can't count on the others acting the way I would. _I_ would never have volunteered for the Games, after all. I can't expect them all to behave rationally. Can't expect them all to be thinking properly – especially if they haven't been able to find food or water. Hungry, thirsty, tired people make mistakes.

Hell, even well-fed and well-rested people make stupid mistakes. Like thinking a tree is a good hiding place. Maybe it was only a natural assumption, since she was from Seven and all. Maybe she thought at tree would be safe. But if trouble comes when you're up there, there's only one way to go – down. And there aren't very many pleasant ways to get down quickly.

Nope. No trees for me. But I _will_ have to find somewhere to rest eventually. I grip my axe tightly, squinting in the early morning light. There has to be _somewhere_ that will be relatively safe.

Of course, the terrain itself isn't what makes any part of the arena safe. It's the distance from the other tributes. Problem is, I have no real way to tell exactly where any of the others might be. Tributes from Seven might instinctively head for the trees, but the others? I don't know.

If Elinor were still alive, it would be easier. One of us could sleep while the other kept watch, then switch off after a while. But she's dead. And I'm not really likely to find another ally.

 _Especially if you kill everyone you come across._ I could have offered an alliance to the girl from Seven, after all. But I didn't. I didn't see a potential ally – I saw competition. Neither of us had any reason to trust each other. Not that Elinor and I did – not really. Sure, we were from the same district, but what does that amount to, in the end? She had to die eventually in order for me to go home. Maybe I should be grateful it happened early. That I didn't have to be the one to do it.

I wonder if I could have. If it came down to it, could I really have killed Elinor? Killing the girl from Seven was an easy decision. Almost a rational decision – as rational as anything can be in a fight to the death. She needed to die, so she did. It was simple. And it was pretty quick.

But Elinor…

 _Stop it._ She's dead. Whether I would have been able to kill her doesn't really matter. I didn't have to. I won't have to worry about killing _any_ allies, because I'm not really likely to find another one. And maybe … maybe that's for the best.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I never really managed to fall asleep for long, but maybe that's for the best. It means I hear the splashing in the distance. The screams. And I have enough sense to run the other way.

Then there's a cannon. But it's not mine. It could have been, of course. If someone had found me the way they apparently found the other tributes down here, I wouldn't have had much of a way to defend myself. I could have used a rock, I suppose, but against a tribute with a sword or a spear or something, a rock isn't really going to do much good. Unless I throw it, I guess, but I have no reason to think my aim would be that good. Never really tried to throw a rock at a person before. I mean, even during training we were focused on _weapons_ , not rocks.

But I don't _have_ any weapons. And I'm not about to climb back up the cliff to get some – especially not now that I'm so wet and slippery from the swamp water. It's all I can do to stagger in the direction opposite the screams, and hope that no one is coming after me.

Not that that seems particularly likely. But nothing so far has been what I would have considered 'likely.' How likely was it that both of my allies would die on the first day? And that _I_ would be the one who's still alive? If you'd asked me a few days ago which of the three of us would have survived the longest…

I would have _hoped_ it would be me, of course. All of us would. I want to be the one to go home, just like everyone else in this damn arena. But only one of us will get to – and eight tributes no longer have that option. A third of us are already dead.

And I'm still alive.

If I want to _stay_ that way, though, I need to keep moving. And I need to find some food. And some water that isn't swampy. And preferably a weapon. Not necessarily in that order. Water first, I suppose. But all the water around here smells awful. Does that mean it's not safe to drink? I don't know. I remember one of the trainers saying something about boiling water. But in order to do _that_ , I would need a fire. And in order for things to catch fire, they need to be dry. Nothing around here is dry.

Including me. I'm wet. I'm cold. I smell. But I keep moving, because there isn't really any other option. There's nothing here, certainly. Nothing that's going to help me. Nothing that's going to keep me alive. And the longer I stay, the less energy I'll have when the time _does_ come to leave and find food. So I might as well leave now.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

There's a part of me that wants to just leave now. To take off with Ivone and go searching for tributes while the two boys snooze. Sure, Ivone offered to be the first one to stay here and guard the supplies, but the two of us are perfectly well-rested. Why should we stay here when we could be doing something more productive?

More productive. That's the idea, at least. But do we really have any reason to think a hunt today would be any more productive than our attempts last night? Sure, we can see now, but as far as knowing which direction to go to find tributes, we seem to be back to square one. The pile of weapons seems to confirm Ivone's theory that some of the tributes snuck back here while we were gone – there are at least a few weapons missing, and some of the food, as well. But as far as which way they went, we're even more clueless than before.

At least before, we had some general idea of which way tributes ran during the initial fight. But those tributes could be anywhere by now. We don't even really know how big the arena is. How far away they could be. We don't really know _anything._ I don't like that, of course – and neither do the others – but there doesn't seem to be much we can do about it. Ra's idea to follow the parachute backfired. Ivone's idea to split up backfired.

I start pacing the edges of the hill. Some parts seem steeper than others. But does that mean the others would have avoided those directions, or that they _would_ have gone that way, hoping we wouldn't want to follow? What would I have done, if I were running?

If I were running. It's harder to put myself in that position. Every time I pictured being in the Games while I was training, _I_ was the one looking for a fight. Never the one being chased, being hunted, being killed. No one _wants_ to picture themselves being killed, I suppose. But it's always a possibility. There are still sixteen of us left. Fifteen more tributes who have to die. I'll have to be very careful if I want to avoid being one of them.

But even if I'm careful, there are no guarantees. Hannah didn't make any mistakes – at least, not tactically. She was simply in a bad position – near three tributes who wanted to make a splash by killing her, and too far away from the rest of us to expect help. Even if every tribute had perfect strategy, made logical decisions, never took unnecessary risks, there would still only be one Victor. Twenty-three tributes would still end up dead.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

I wonder how surprised the audience is that neither of us is dead yet. There have been eight cannons so far. But none belonging to a blind boy or a girl kind enough to think I'm a good ally. Charlotte and I stopped by a stream a while ago to rest, but neither of us has really wanted to sleep. So we ate some of the food we stole from the top of the hill.

Stole. No, that's not quite right, I suppose. The food was never really theirs – never really any of ours – to begin with. And we're supposed to be _killing_ each other. What's a little stealing compared to that? Besides, they had more than enough. It's not like they're going to die because we took a little of their food. And, even if they did, would causing their death by starvation really be any worse than killing them outright?

I must be getting tired.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," Charlotte suggests. "I'll keep watch for a while."

Right. _Keep watch._ And what am I supposed to offer to do when it's her turn to sleep? Sure, I _might_ be able to hear someone coming. Maybe. If they're making enough noise. If there's a large group, I could probably hear them. But if it's only one or two…

And, yes, I have a spear now, but that doesn't do me much good if I can't tell where my opponent is. If someone comes while she's asleep…

Then we're probably dead. But we're probably dead, anyway. It's just a matter of when, and how. If we don't sleep, we'll start making stupid mistakes. We'll start getting paranoid and jumpy. And that's not how I want to spend my last few days.

So I lie down and try to get as comfortable as I can. "Wake me up when you get tired," I mumble, knowing full well she probably won't. That she's probably tired _now_. Actually, forget 'probably.' She probably didn't get much sleep the night before the Games, either.

The ground is hard, but I'm too tired to care. Too tired to care about the cold or the fear or the fact that, if I fall asleep now, I might never wake up. If I do, I do. And if I don't … well, maybe that's not such a bad way to go.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

Maybe it wasn't such a bad way to go. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. The boy from Eight – at least he didn't suffer for long. Sure, he was scared. And it probably hurt. But it was over pretty quickly. That's gotta be the best way to do it, right? I mean, if I _had_ to kill him, that has to be one of the kinder ways to do it.

Not that I did it because I thought it would be kind. If I'd had a weapon, I probably would have stabbed him. But I didn't. I still only have a knife. Nothing that I could really use from a distance. If I have to fight again – no, _when_ I have to fight again – I may end up having to do the same thing.

Even the thought makes my stomach turn. I don't want to admit it to Mel, but … I don't want to do that again. I didn't think it would be such a big deal. I thought it would be easy. And it was – at the time. But looking back … well, I don't want to look back. I don't want to think about it. And I certainly don't want to think about _doing_ that again. About having to kill again. But I'll have to, if I want to go home.

And I still want to go home … but so did the little boy from Eight. So does Mel. So does everyone else who's been lucky enough to survive so far. But only one of us will get what we want. Only one of us will get to go home.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

Only one of us will get to go home. I keep having to remind myself of that, every time I get comfortable. It's so easy to think that I'm safe. There are four of us, after all. We have plenty of food and weapons. No one would be stupid enough to attack us up here. But all of that – it's only going to keep us safe for a little while. Eventually, none of that will matter. Only one of us is going to make it out of this arena alive.

And if I want it to be me, I have to prove that I deserve it. I have to start acting like I want it. That's what Z keeps telling me. That I need to make a move. And it's not like I don't _want_ to. But I haven't had the chance. Everyone ran away too quickly at the start of the Games, and I haven't _seen_ any other tributes since then.

 _Except the ones you're working with._

I roll over, trying to get comfortable on the rocky ground, doing my best to ignore Z. He's just trying to help, but he's getting ahead of himself. If I tried to attack the others now, it wouldn't do me any good. There are three of them. One of me. And even if I managed to kill them – or kill one or two and then escape … then what? I'd be alone. No one to help me. No one to keep watch while I slept. There are still sixteen of us left. I can't afford to act too quickly.

That's what I tell Z every time he suggests it, at least. The truth is, I don't _want_ to turn on my allies. It isn't their fault we've been so unsuccessful. They're trying just as hard as I am. They want this just as badly as I do.

 _That's the problem._ We all want to survive. And if it comes down to a fight between the four of us, do I really think that's a fight that I would win?

No. No, I can't fight them. Not in the usual sense. I'll have to find some other way. But not yet. Not yet, Z. I still need them. _We_ still need them.

Not yet.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

We haven't really found anything yet. Not as far as food goes, anyway. We've found plenty of trees, but neither of us is really sure which ones might have edible leaves or bark or … well, anything, really. And we're not desperate enough to try some without being certain. Not yet, anyways.

What we _have_ found is that the ground is getting soggier the farther we go downhill. It seems to be leading into some sort of marsh. But is that good or bad? There was a girl who drowned in a marsh last year, but this one doesn't really seem to be as deep. At least not here. Mostly, it smells. A lot. But maybe that's good. Maybe it'll mean other tributes won't want to come this way.

Unless, of course, other tributes had the same idea. What if _everyone_ decides to go and hide in the swamp, thinking no one else will be there. I glance over at Rick as we head in a little deeper. Has he thought of that? Probably not. To be fair, _I_ didn't think of it until just now. Neither of us was really thinking about what the other tributes might do.

Because, really, there's no way of knowing. Maybe the others will want to hide. But, from the number of cannons so far, that hasn't been everyone's strategy. Eight cannons. Eight people are dead. We know Atleigh and Lexi were two of them, but the others … we have no way of knowing. We can guess, sure, but all we really know is that eight people are dead. And there are sixteen of us left.

Sixteen. That's already almost as far as District Three's tributes made it last year. They placed 16th and 15th. As long as we don't do something incredibly stupid – and very soon – Rick and I should at least do better than that.

 _Better than that._ Better than 16th and 15th doesn't really mean anything. The girl who placed second last year is just as dead now as the boy who died first. If I die three or four days from now, I'll be just as dead as Lexi was yesterday. And if Rick dies—

No. No, not _if._ When Rick dies. He has to die, if I want to go home. Whether he places 16th or second doesn't really matter, as long as he dies eventually. I swallow hard, glancing in the other direction. I don't _want_ him to die. I don't want _either_ of us to die. But one of us has to.

And we're both going to soon if we don't find something to eat. Or, more pressingly, something to drink. There's water in the swamp, but it can't be safe to drink – can it? Maybe we can carry some of it back to the trees, start a fire, and boil it. But carry it in _what_? Boil it in _what_? We don't really have much to work with.

That's our own fault, I suppose – for not grabbing anything at the start of the Games. I figured we'd be able to sneak back later and get something, like a lot of the tributes did last year. But something about that feels … I don't know. Different. The girl who killed Lexi – she didn't seem interested in leaving the top of the hill. If she and her allies stay there…

That wouldn't be a bad idea, I suppose – staying at the top of the hill, well-supplied and well-armed. Might even be what I'd do, if I thought Rick and I could defend that sort of position. But we couldn't. There are only two of us. There are … what? Five of them? Unless some of them are dead, too, I suppose. I just wish I knew who was up there – who was still left. Then we might be able to come up with a plan.

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

Dina's trying to come up with some sort of plan – I can tell. Her forehead started getting all wrinkly a while ago, the way my sister Tania's does when she's concentrating. That's probably not a good idea – starting to compare her to my little sister. But there's a part of me that can't help it.

And maybe there's no harm. After all, it's not like I plan on _killing_ her. Sure, she has to die eventually if I want to go home, but that doesn't mean _I_ have to be the one to do it. The only way that would happen would be if it came down to her and me at the end of the Games. And we're a long way from that. There are still sixteen of us left.

Sixteen. Still, that's already only two-thirds of what we started with. After barely one day. At this rate, the Games will be over just as quickly as last year's.

I don't really know if that's a good thing or not. I mean, I guess it's a good thing for whoever survives. They get to go home sooner. But the rest of us – no, the rest of _them_ – it just means that we – _they_ – have to die sooner.

I glance around as we head a little farther into the swamp. There's nothing I can do about any of that – not really. If someone finds us, they find us – and then we'll have to fight. Until then, the best thing to do is to avoid the action. At least, until we have some sort of weapons. And we aren't exactly likely to find any in a swamp.

We could try to make some, I suppose. Head back to the forest and maybe grab a few tree branches. That's sort of like a spear. But weapons don't really seem to be the most important thing right now. Water is. Well, water and food. But water first – right? It certainly seems more important right now. It seems like a strange thing to want when we're practically surrounded by it, but swamp water can't possibly be safe to drink.

Can it?

"There has to be some way to make it safe to drink." Only after Dina turns to look at me do I realize I've said it out loud. "The water. No sense dying of thirst when we're surrounded by the stuff. So … what do we do to make it safe?"

"Boil it?" Dina ventures. That sounds right. But how?

"Maybe we can make some sort of container out of wood?" Maybe. But is that even possible without having any sort of tools to cut the wood with? Maybe we could use rocks, but that sounds like it would take forever. Still, it's a plan – and that's more than we had before.

Apparently, that's enough for Dina, as well. "Back to the trees, then?" she asks.

But, as we turn back towards the treeline, Dina immediately ducks down. Without thinking, I copy her – and then see what she's hiding from. Two tributes, a little bit deeper in the woods. I duck as low as I dare in the swampy water. If they haven't heard us yet, then maybe we're safe…

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

Maybe we should just pretend not to hear them. There are two of them, from the sound of it – two tributes, a little deeper in the marsh. Both Jethro and I keep walking the way we were going, trying not to give any indication that we heard them. Because if the audience knows we heard them, they might expect us to do something. They might expect us to attack.

And if there were only one tribute, we might. Jethro certainly might. He didn't hesitate to attack the boy from Eight. Then again, the boy from Eight had supplies that we needed. We don't really _need_ anything right now.

Well, except for the fact that we need the other tributes to die.

But if there are two of them – and two of us – would attacking even be a good idea? If they're armed, they might kill us, instead. Even if they're not armed, if they have time to see us coming, or if they're older and stronger, they might be able to overpower us. Then again, if they had such an advantage, then why haven't they attacked _us_?

Maybe they just don't want to. Can't really blame them for that, I suppose. Last year, most of the tributes didn't want to fight each other. And it's not as if I _want_ to know. But I do want to go home.

I just want to go home.

I grip my knife as tightly as I can. If they attack, I want to be ready. And if they don't…

If they don't, it's only a matter of time before someone else does. Jethro and I left the pack with the food and water hidden in the swamp where we slept, so that other tributes who need food might be less likely to attack us. But that won't keep us safe forever. Eventually, it won't just be a matter of killing for food or water. Eventually, they'll come after us because we're still _here_.

Does that mean we should make the first move? Maybe. But even Jethro doesn't seem eager to do that. Maybe killing the boy from Eight took more of a toll on him than I thought. Or maybe he just doesn't want to attack someone without having a good idea of who they are. Either way, we keep walking, and no one attacks us. I follow Jethro a little deeper into the trees, but, once he reaches a particularly large one, he motions to me to join him behind it – hidden just beyond sight of anyone who might still be in the marsh.

"Now what?" I whisper.

Jethro smiles a little – a smile that, if I'm being honest, is a bit unnerving. "Now we wait."

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

There's not really much to do but wait, I suppose. Isaac is still sleeping, but I woke up a few minutes ago. I could have used a bit more sleep, but I don't want to seem like I'm taking it easy. None of us are. We spent the entire night searching for tributes, only to come up empty-handed.

At least, Isaac and I spent the night searching for tributes. I'm not entirely sure what time Jayda and Ivone decided to come back to the hill, but, in order to be as well-rested as they seem, I'm sure it must have been before daylight. Before the time we agreed on. Which means they came back without really looking for anyone.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised by that. It was Ivone, after all, who suggested splitting up into two groups. Maybe that was her plan all along – head back to the top of the hill and get some rest while Isaac and I did the dirty work. And now she wants to stay here and stand guard while the rest of us go looking for tributes. That was her idea, too.

So either she's lazier than I originally thought, or more clever than I gave her credit for. Either she doesn't actually _want_ to go hunting for other tributes, or she realizes the danger and is willing to let us take the risk in her place – at least for a while. The risk of staying at the top of the hill, after all, is minimal. If a tribute or two comes along that she doesn't think she can handle, she could always run away. Sure, that sounds cowardly, but she doesn't seem like the sort to stick around out of a sense of honor or obligation if things start to go horribly wrong.

None of them do, I suppose. None of _us_. I certainly have no plans to stay if the arrangement starts to go sour. Maybe that's only to be expected. Under normal circumstances, after all, we could be expected to work together. To help each other. But these _aren't_ normal circumstances. These are the Games. A fight to the death. And, eventually, the others have to go. Even the others in my own group.

But not yet. For now, the three of them will make an effective deterrent to anyone who's thinking about attacking. After all, given the choice, most of the other tributes would probably rather attack one person than four. I know I would. Not that we're likely to run into any groups of four. Ours was the largest group in the arena at the start, except for…

Except for the other group of five. A twelve-year-old, a thirteen-year-old, a fourteen-year-old, and two older tributes. Not exactly the most intimidating bunch. I wonder which way they went. If we managed to find them, we might be able to take out four or five opponents at once – assuming enough of them are still alive.

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

I'm still alive. I kept watch for a while, then let Julian have a turn. And both of us are still here. Still alive. No one attacked while I was asleep.

I have to admit, there's a part of me that's rather surprised by that. Last year, it seemed things moved a bit faster. Not too many tributes found each other on their own, but there was a panther mutt that drove tributes together, and a fire that forced some of them in certain directions. And a storm that injured one of the tributes. And…

And, and, and. This year, the Gamemakers seem to be staying out of it. Or maybe Julian and I have just gotten lucky. Not that I'm complaining. Eight tributes are dead, and both of us are still here. We have food, water, weapons, and we were able to get some rest. There's really not much more we could ask for.

Well, except _not_ being in a fight to the death. That would be better. But there's really no point in dwelling on that. We're here. At least one of us is going to die, no matter how hard we try to help each other. In all likelihood, neither of us is going to make it out of the arena alive. So, yes, it could be a lot better. But it could also be a lot worse.

"So where do we go now?" Julian asks quietly, as if he's worried that someone else might hear us. But, really, if there was anyone else in the area, wouldn't they have found us by now?

"Go?" I ask. I was planning to stay here. Sure, both of us are a bit more well-rested now, but is there really any reason for us to leave? We have everything we could want right here. What's he so anxious about.

He nods. "I mean, I guess we could stay a little while longer. But the Gamemakers last year – they didn't really seem to like it when tributes stayed in one place for too long."

He's right. Two tributes who stayed in clearing too long got caught in a storm. Another two started a fire. Several ended up getting chased by the mutt. Is that why the Gamemakers have left us alone so far? Because we've kept moving? But is wandering aimlessly really any better than staying put?

Maybe. Because at least it gives off the illusion that we're doing something. "All right," I agree. "Which way do you want to go?"

"I think we should keep going downhill," Julian offers. "We don't know whether anyone from the top of the hill might be looking for us. If they notice some of the weapons are missing…"

It's a silly argument. Even if they happen to notice that some of the weapons are gone – not really likely, considering how many of them there were to start off with – they have no way of knowing which way we went. No way of knowing where we are.

But I don't argue. Because it's a good excuse to keep moving. And maybe if we pretend we have a reason for going one way or another, the Gamemakers won't take it upon themselves to _give_ us one.

That's what I tell myself, at least, as Julian and I head downhill. Really, it just feels good to be _doing_ something. Anything. Even heading this way for no particular reason seems like a better idea than just staying put. It feels like we're making progress – even if we aren't.

Because, really, progress in the Games isn't measured by the distance we've covered. It's measured by how long we stay alive. By how many other tributes have died. And we've already done better than a third of our competitors. We're still here. We're still alive. But how long can both of us stay that way?

* * *

 **Athena Lancaster  
** **District Ten Escort**

They're both dead. Hannah and Darrin – both dead within the first twenty-four hours of the Games. I knew it could happen, of course. Both of District Four's tributes died early on last year, as did both from Eleven. But knowing it can happen doesn't really make it any better.

I shake my head as Maia pours me another drink. "I really thought they had a chance," I mumble, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. She's probably not the best person to complain to. She's been just as excited about this year's Games as she was last year, despite losing a tribute early on each time. She was practically jumping up and down when Jae killed Aria.

I was never that excited – even last year. Being an escort was something I signed up for out of … what? Curiosity? A desire to serve the Capitol? A fascination with the districts, maybe? And I have to admit, the festivities are fun. But this … this isn't. This isn't fun. This isn't exciting. This is just … sad.

And maybe that's the point. The war was sad, after all. And the Games are supposed to be a reminder of the war. A deterrent to prevent anything like the rebellion from happening again. But the price … I can't help but wonder if it's worth it.

"It'll get better," a voice from behind assures me. I turn to see General Tyrone watching me. "Not right away, but, eventually, it'll wear off, and you'll tell yourself that you'll do better next time. That you'll try harder next year. Even though you know there wasn't really anything you could do."

"Is that what you told yourself last year?" He stepped in for District Four's escort last year, after all, after she was killed. Four's tributes and the boy from Seven were the first three to die. Not exactly a great track record for a great war hero. And this year … Aria is already dead. Bentley's alliance was just attacked by a giant snake. Not exactly a promising start.

"It's what I told myself every time I lost a soldier," Tyrone answers softly. "Death is death – inside the Games or out. There's no difference – not really. Not in any way that counts. The Games are like the rebellion – just a little more chaotic."

"Chaotic?" That's not exactly the word I would have used to describe the Games. Everything seems to be so structured. So under control. Maybe it's a bit chaotic emotionally, but…

Tyrone nods. "Chaotic. During the rebellion, there were times when things were a bit confusing, but at least everyone's motivations made sense. The rebels wanted to damage the Capitol. The Capitol wanted to regain control of the districts. Everyone knew what they wanted – and what the other side wanted."

"But everyone in the Games wants the same thing," I point out. "They want to survive."

"Some of them," Tyrone agrees. "The ones who do well, yes. But there are others who want something different. If Darrin had simply wanted to survive, would he have thrown himself at that snake?"

"No."

"If Charlotte simply wanted to survive, would she have chosen Julian as an ally?"

"Probably not."

"If the rest of Phoebe's alliance simply wanted to survive, wouldn't they have left her behind by now?"

"What's your point?"

"Most of them want to survive, but most of them also realize that there's a chance – a pretty _good_ chance – that they won't. And they want to make sure that they're remembered the way they _want_ to be remembered. Whether they realize it or not, what they _really_ want is to shape how history will see them. How their families and friends will remember them when they're gone."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Ever think about how history will remember you?"

Tyrone smiles. "Of course. But that wasn't the driving force behind my actions. I just did my job. History will take care of itself. The Capitol sees me as a hero. In the districts, I'm seen as a villain. The truth is probably somewhere in between. But history … it's not always about the truth. It's about what makes for a good story to tell your children. Both sides embellish details. Both sides omit parts of the story that would damage their point of view. History is a useful tool, but much of history is a lie." He smiles. "And you? How will history remember District Ten's very first escort?"

I shake my head. "I just wanted them to remember me as the person who helped bring a Victor home. But not this year."

"Not this year," Tyrone agrees. "But you knew that. Hannah was too much of a rebel, and Darrin … I think he got what he wanted."

Maybe he did. He helped his allies survive. He saved their lives. He died a hero. But that doesn't make it any better.


	25. Past Tomorrow

**Past Tomorrow**

" _I'm past patiently waitin'. I'm passionately smashin' every expectation. Every action's an act of creation. I'm laughin' in the face of casualties and sorrow. For the first time, I'm thinkin' past tomorrow!"_

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

She still thinks I have a plan. Mel is watching me as we crouch together behind a tree. She thinks I know what I'm doing. She thinks I have a plan for taking down the two tributes we saw in the swamp. She thinks I'm about to do something clever. Something unpredictable.

The truth is, I have no idea what I'm doing.

I don't even know if the tributes in the swamp are coming this way. They probably saw us, but we have no way of knowing whether or not they're going to follow us. Maybe they're unarmed and aren't sure if they can take on another group in a fight. Maybe they _are_ armed but don't think that chasing a pair of younger tributes through a swamp is worth the trouble. Or maybe they _are_ coming after us, and _they_ have a clever plan.

Okay. Think. Just think. The important thing is that the audience _thinks_ we have a plan. As long as they think we're up to something – as long as the _Gamemakers_ think we're up to something – then they won't try to force us into a fight. They'll assume we're about to do that ourselves. As long as they think that, they have no reason to start a fire or send a storm or some mutts to bring us together. As long as we look like we have a plan, we're probably safe.

But they won't wait for that plan forever. Which means that, sooner or later, we'll have to actually come up with something. Okay. Two tributes coming this way. Maybe. What are we supposed to do now?

* * *

 **Rick Therald, 17  
** **District Three**

What are we supposed to do now? The tributes are gone – the two tributes we saw walking away from us in the woods. But Dina is still crouched low in the marsh, watching the spot where they disappeared – as if she's expecting them to come back. Or as if she's trying to figure out whether or not we should follow them.

The answer seems obvious to me. No. We have no idea whether or not they're armed, but we know that _we_ aren't. We don't have any weapons. We don't have any food or water. They have no reason to want to fight us, and we shouldn't give them one.

Food. It's Dina who finally mentions the obvious. "What if they have food?"

I can see where she's coming from. If they have food, then attacking them might be worth the risk. Maybe we wouldn't even have to kill them. Maybe we could follow them, sneak up, and steal some of their food. But if they have food, then they probably have weapons, as well. Is that really a risk we want to take?

"What if they don't?" I point out. "No point getting in a fight over nothing."

I know immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. We're _here_ to get in a fight over nothing – or, at least, nothing that's worth fighting over. We're here because the Capitol says we're supposed to fight to the death. And arguing with that didn't work out so well for anyone last year.

Dina's undeterred. "What if one of them is the boy who killed Atleigh?"

Shit. What am I supposed to say to that? _What if they aren't?_ They weren't close enough for us to tell who, exactly, it was, but … well, maybe it was. I hesitate for a moment. But only for a moment. Dina isn't going to change her mind. She isn't going to let this go. So maybe we should at least find out whether she's right. "All right," I agree. "Let's find out who it is. See whether they have weapons. And then figure out what to do."

It sounds like a good plan. A reasonable plan. Dina nods, and I follow her out of the swamp. "This way," she whispers, heading in the direction the others went. I follow her as quietly as I can. We don't want whoever we're following to see us coming.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

We can see them coming a mile away. Well, maybe not quite a _mile_ , but, from up here, things look pretty good. We climbed a tree. Not the one Jethro initially suggested hiding behind – that one's branches are too far up – but one of the smaller ones. It's strong enough to hold our weight, and leafy enough to hide us. For the most part, anyway. If they're _looking_ for us up here, they'll probably be able to see us. But, with any luck, this isn't where they'll be looking for us.

They're from District Three, after all. I can see that as they come closer. Closer. Would tributes from District Three really expect us to be hiding up in the trees? Hell, would _I_ be expecting it, if Jethro hadn't suggested it?

Maybe. But I would probably have just assumed it would be a good place to hide from them – not a good place for an ambush. But that's what it's about to be, if everything goes according to plan. The plan is pretty straightforward, really. Wait until they're directly beneath us, and, as long as they don't appear to be armed, jump down on top of them and…

And kill them. There's really no nice way to put that. But it's what we're here to do, after all. And Jethro's already killed. So maybe he's more comfortable with the idea. But I … I don't know. But I have to be. This is what I have to do. What I have to _be_ – what I have to _become_ – if I want to go home.

Jethro smiles as the two of them approach. Is he just smiling for the cameras? Or is he actually enjoying this? I smile back, trying to mirror his expression. His confidence. I can't let him see – can't let the _audience_ see – how nervous I really am.

They're almost right beneath us. It's the girl who approaches first, but then veers off to the right a little. She doesn't appear to be armed. But she's not quite standing in the right spot. She stands there for a moment, her arms across her chest. "They can't have gotten much farther than this – can they?"

The boy shakes his head, breathing hard as he follows her up the slope, but a little farther to the left – almost in just the right place. "Maybe they turned somewhere. Maybe they're hiding. Maybe—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Jethro jumps, landing squarely on the boy and plunging his knife into his back. The boy screams. The girl screams. Jethro screams as the boy falls backwards, pinning him. Then the girl is running – back the way she came. I leap down, ready to follow her, but the boy is already struggling to his feet, rolling over to face Jethro. "You!"

"Me!" Jethro grunts, even as the boy wraps his hands around Jethro's throat. I don't think. Can't think. I rush to Jethro's side, my knife plunging into the boy's back. Again, and again, and again – until his hands slip from Jethro's neck, his body slumping, lifeless, on top of him as the cannon sounds.

Jethro's coughing and sputtering as I roll the other boy off of him. But he's still alive. "Are you all right?" I ask, helping him to his feet.

Jethro grimaces, clutching his side. "I … I think so. Better than him, at least." He nods at the body beside him, but then begins to sway a little. I catch him before he falls. "Just a bit dizzy," he insists. "My head hit the ground when he fell on me. I'll be fine in a moment."

I nod as he sits down to rest, leaning back against the tree. I hope he'll be all right. "We make a pretty good team, huh?" he mumbles, closing his eyes for a moment.

He's right. We do. And it wasn't as … well, wasn't as hard as I thought, I guess – the idea of killing someone else. Someone who was about to kill Jethro. Given the choice between the other boy's life and Jethro's, I chose my friend's. And I would do it again. That's all that matters.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

I'm still alive. That's all that matters. That's what I keep trying to tell myself as I keep running. Faster. Faster. Hoping that he's not following me – the boy who attacked Rick. The boy who _killed_ Rick.

It could have been me. _Would_ have been me, if I'd been the one standing closer to that tree. It was dumb luck, plain and simple, that he's the one who's dead.

Stupid. It was stupid of me to suggest that we attack. Stupid to goad him on by suggesting that maybe one of those tributes had killed Atleigh. I wasn't thinking with my head. I just wanted food. I thought they might have some supplies. Something we could steal, maybe.

I never wanted Rick to die.

I never wanted any of this.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I never wanted any of this. I can't help a groan as I roll over, trying to find a more comfortable spot on the ground. I know we should keep moving. Another cannon just woke me. That's nine so far. Nine cannons. Nine tributes dead, and the four of us are still sitting here.

But none of the others seem ready to get moving yet, either. Certainly not Ada. She's still sitting there on the ground, silently rocking back and forth, glancing around every now and then to make sure no one's coming. Keeping watch, I guess. But what's she really going to do if someone comes? What are _any_ of us going to do if someone comes?

Okay. That's not really the most important thing right now. If someone comes and finds us, they find us, and we're probably as good as dead. There isn't anything we can really do about that. So maybe we should focus on what we _can_ do something about. Maybe we can find some food. Maybe…

But finding food means leaving. And leaving means all of us have to go. Doesn't it? I glance over at Apollo, who's still lying down, pretending to be asleep. At Phoebe, who's just as unconscious as she's been for quite a while. None of them want to go anywhere right now – that much is clear.

Slowly, I get to my feet. Everything hurts. I'm still exhausted. But one of us has to do _something._ I don't want to start an argument over whether we should get going, but maybe…

"I'll be right back," I offer, nodding towards the trees in the distance. Ada doesn't question me. She probably assumes I'm just going to relieve myself. And that _is_ the first thing I do once I'm out of sight.

But then I keep going. Maybe I can find some food. Some water that isn't swampy. _Something_. If I do – if I can say with certainty that there's food and water in this direction – then it'll be easier to convince the others to come this way. And if I don't find anything … well, I haven't lost anything but time.

* * *

 **Apollo Lancey, 14  
** **District Five**

Bentley sure is taking his time getting back. There haven't been any cannons since he's left, but, still, it's been at least ten minutes. How far away does he have to go?

I close my eyes. If he wandered off a little, that's not my problem. It's not my job to take care of the rest of this group. I already scouted out in this direction and came back to tell them it was safe – and then outran a giant sea serpent. I'm not about to go traipsing off after someone who took a little too long to take a dump.

Ada, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be taking it so well. She's mumbling quietly to herself – maybe wondering if she should go after him. And maybe I should feel sorry for her. Darrin did tell her to take care of us, after all. But she has to realize that she can't take care of us forever. That, eventually, most of us are going to die.

I roll over a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. It's not easy. I managed to get some sleep earlier, but then there was a cannon and … well, I guess that always put people on edge a little more.

Nine cannons. And it's already … what? Halfway through the second day? A little more than halfway, I suppose. The sun is already dipping a little lower in the sky. If we don't find something to eat soon…

Maybe that's where Bentley went. Maybe he's looking for food. Maybe we should have followed him. But if he'd _wanted_ us to follow him – if he'd _wanted_ us all to go looking for food – then he should have damn well said so rather than just wandering off.

Maybe he's not thinking clearly. Maybe none of us are. I know I'm not. I'm just so tired. So hungry. I just wish … I just wish none of this were happening.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I just wish I could find some food. I finally decided to risk drinking a little of the swamp water a little while ago. It tastes exactly as bad as it smells, but at least I'm still alive. How long that's going to last, of course, depends on whether I manage to find anything to _eat_. Water without food is only going to keep me alive for so long.

I can see some trees in the distance. Maybe that means there's food. There has to be _something_ to eat in this arena. Unless … unless that's why there was food at the top of the hill at the start of the Games. What if there _isn't_ anything edible, and that's their way of drawing us back up the hill? What if…?

 _Stop it._ There has to be food. Trees mean food – don't they? Even if there isn't fruit or anything, there was an edible plants section during training, and a lot of the bark and leaves seemed to be edible. A lot of them – but not all. I didn't spend long at that station. Will I really be able to tell the difference?

Will I really have any choice but to risk it?

Okay. First things first. First I have to _get_ to the trees. After that, I can worry about figuring out whether anything is edible or not. First I have to get there.

So I keep walking. Stumbling, really, by this point. Everything is still so slippery. The rocks. The dirt beneath them. Everything is wet – including me. I'd dried out for a while, but then I slipped on one of the damn rocks and … well, wet again. At least things have warmed up a bit, so I'm not soaking wet _and_ freezing cold. That's something, I guess.

And I'm still alive. Nine tributes dead, and I'm still alive. Still making my way through this marsh. And, sure, it smells. Sure, I'm wet and hungry and tired. But that's still better – a _lot_ better – than being dead.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Maybe staying behind at the top of the hill was a better idea, after all. The others are finally getting ready to leave. They don't seem to know when they'll be back, but maybe that's all right. Setting a time to meet up again didn't really seem to work out last time, anyway. And it's not as if I'll be going anywhere. I'm just staying here – making sure that no one comes and steals anything.

Right.

That's what I suggested, anyway. And maybe if only one tribute sneaks up here, I'll be able to fight them off – or maybe they won't even try sneaking in if they see me up here. But if more than one comes – or if someone seems particularly dangerous – I'm not going to stay here and fight to defend … what? A pile of weapons and food? If I can kill them, I will. If not, I'll run. I'm not here to be a hero, and I'm not going to die to keep someone from getting a little food. I can't afford to be that stupid. I can't afford to play the hero. Because heroes don't survive the Games.

The boy who won last year, after all – he ran when he and his allies were attacked by the girl from Seven. It was only later – after a fire drove him back in that direction – that he returned and killed her. And, even then, he got lucky. Very lucky.

I can't count on getting that lucky. Not all the time. But I don't tell the others that as they head down the hill in the opposite direction from last night. I don't want them to know that I don't plan on staying here and risking my life if running seems like a better option.

But would any of them really do any different? Given the choice between running and a fight they probably wouldn't win, how many of them would stand and fight? I don't think any of them would be that stupid. Why should I be embarrassed to say that I won't, either?

Still, I don't have to broadcast it. Don't have to let the audience know that I don't plan on holding up my end of the deal if things start to go wrong. If I'm lucky, no one will even come along while the others are gone – or it'll be some small, scrawny tribute who's half-starved after a day and a half in the arena.

A day and a half. Has it really been that long? I guess so. The sun's already starting to dip a little lower in the sky. It doesn't seem like that long. Maybe because we've had plenty of food. We've had plenty of rest. Anyone who hasn't had either of those things … well, they're probably pretty sick of the Games by now. But that can only be good for us. It'll make them desperate. And desperate people – they do some pretty stupid things.

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

I guess I should be grateful that we're not in too desperate a position yet. Julian and I have food, water, and weapons. That's more than most of the others can probably say. And we're still alive, which is more than _nine_ of the others can say.

Nine. Nine tributes are dead. In the moments that I manage to forget that those were actual people – actual teenagers with lives and families of their own – when I manage to forget that, it's almost funny. Almost funny that Julian and I have made it this far. That _we're_ still alive, when nine other people are dead.

It's a moment before I realize that I'm laughing. Julian turns towards me, eyebrows raised. "Are you all right?"

No. No, I'm not all right. I'm in the Hunger Games. I could die at any moment, and I'm sitting here … laughing. "I'm fine," I insist. "It's just … it's just funny."

"What's funny?"

"That we're still alive. The two of us." I stop for a moment to catch my breath, but … but it's just _hilarious_.

After a moment, Julian joins in. "We shouldn't … be so loud," he points out, giggling. "We could attract attention."

We could. Maybe we are. Someone could find us at any moment. We could die because we just couldn't stop laughing. But, for a moment, none of that matters. For a moment, I'm almost … almost happy.

No. No, I _am_ happy. Not to be in the Games, certainly. But I'm happy that I'm still alive. I'm happy that Julian is still alive. Not just relieved or not as frightened as I was before. But actually, genuinely _happy_. I can't remember the last time I was actually happy. And that … maybe that makes it all worth it.

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

All of this has been worth it, just to hear someone laugh again. It's been a long time since anyone besides Clarence has been able to laugh while I'm around. Not for lack of me trying, but most people just can't get that comfortable around a kid who looks like me. Around someone who's a walking reminder of just how much can be wrong with the world.

But Charlotte … she's different. She's special. I think she actually _likes_ being around me – and not because she feels sorry for me. She's actually … enjoying this moment. And I think I am, too. "Thank you," I gasp between bursts of laughter.

"For what?"

I shake my head. "For reminding me why I volunteered. This … this is what life is supposed to be like. This is what I wanted for … for Clarence. And, Clarence, if you're listening, I want you to remember moments like this. _This_ is what life is about. _This_ is what I want you to have. Enjoy it."

Shit, I sound like I'm saying goodbye. Maybe I am. Maybe it's better to say it like this. Better to say goodbye now, while I have the chance. Before something happens and I don't have the time. If I can give him one last image to hold onto – one last moment when I'm smiling and laughing despite the Games – then that's what I want to do. _This_ is what I want to do – for as long as I can.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

 _This_ is what I was meant to do. This is what I'm here for. I have to remind myself of that as the three of us – Jayda, Isaac, and I – head off down the hill. This is what we're supposed to be doing. Things will work out better this time. They _have_ to.

Not that the result was _terrible_ last time. We're still alive, after all. Things could have been a lot worse. But if I'm going to win, we have to start doing better than just staying alive. We haven't killed anyone since the first hour or so of the Games. We have to do more than that. We have to do _better_ than that. I have to _be_ better than that.

No. No, I _am_ better than that. I just need to show them that. They don't seem to realize – these two – just how lucky they are. Just how fortunate they are to be my allies. But that'll change soon enough. Sooner or later, we'll find someone – or someone will find us. And then…

And then we'll fight. Just like we did at the start. As strange as it sounds, there was a certain … rush at the start of the Games. A certain thrill. That feeling … it's gone now. Everything seems to be happening so slowly in comparison. Was this how things went last year? I don't remember it being so slow.

Or maybe it only seems slow since _we're_ the ones in the arena. The Games last year lasted four days, after all. We're only halfway or so through the second day, and there are already nine tributes dead. That's nearly half. We're making progress. Or, at least, _some_ of us are.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I hope we're making progress. It's hard to tell, really. Hard to be certain of anything. We can see the treeline in the distance, which is where we're assuming most of the tributes will be hiding. But we have no way of knowing for sure. And, as we found out last time, it's hard to determine exactly _where_ in the forest the tributes might be.

Maybe we'll get a little help. I know we shouldn't count on getting a parachute – especially since we haven't killed anyone since the start of the Games – but it should be pretty obvious that we're _willing_ to kill. We just haven't had the _chance._ We haven't found anyone. How have the other tributes been finding each other? We don't really need any supplies that might come with a parachute, but if we could just get some hint of where the other tributes might be…

But, like I said, we can't count on that. It would be nice, but we have to keep moving. Keep acting as if we know what we're doing without their help. Because…

Because what? Why should we act like we don't know? Like we don't know they could send us something to make our hunt a hell of a lot easier? I glance over at Ra and Isaac. "It'd be nice to have some idea of where the other tributes are, wouldn't it?"

Ra raises an eyebrow. "Of course. Do you have any ideas?"

I shrug. "No, but someone else might. If someone wanted to give us some idea of where the other tributes are right now, that would be _really_ helpful."

Isaac is catching on. "Hell, if we knew the location of all the tributes, the three of us could probably wipe them all out in one fell swoop."

I chuckle. That's getting a little too cocky, probably. But cocky is good. Cocky is interesting. And maybe it'll be enough to make an impression.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I've already made enough of an impression for now. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. But the truth is, I'm getting a bit anxious to do _something_. I got some sleep a little while ago, resting under a tree, but even that wasn't very restful. And I woke to the sound of laughing.

I thought it was a dream, at first. There was no way anyone could actually be laughing in the Games, right? But it wasn't a dream. Someone was laughing – more than one someone, actually – and pretty close by.

Or, at least, they _were_ close by. I immediately headed in the other direction. Sure, I could have ventured closer – tried to figure out who it was. But why? There's only one of me – and at least two of them, from the sound of it. And if they're actually laughing in the Games, there's one of two options. Either they're actually enjoying themselves – enjoying the fact that we're here and we're supposed to kill each other – or they've just gone mad.

Either of those options could be dangerous. They might be armed. And I'm not really in a position to take on two armed tributes without some sort of an advantage. So I immediately headed the other way, but there's a part of me that wonders whether it was the right choice. Whether the Gamemakers will decide to do something about that.

Probably not. I hope not. I hope that what I've been doing has been interesting enough. I've already killed a girl, after all. One of the nine tributes who's died was _my_ doing. Maybe it's not much, especially after two days, but without any allies … well, what more do they expect?

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

What more do they expect of me? What am I supposed to do? I wring my hands as I keep pacing, watching the two of them. Apollo, who's still fast asleep, exhausted from trekking back and forth through the marsh. And Phoebe, who's still unconscious. Who won't be getting any better. Who would probably be better off dead at this point, because then at least she wouldn't be in pain. And at least we wouldn't have to worry about carrying her everywhere.

That sounds terrible. I know. And it's not what Darrin told me to do. He told me to take care of them. But Darrin isn't here. And Bentley isn't even here anymore. I don't know whether or not he's coming back, and I can't go looking for him – not with Apollo and Phoebe still here. I could wake Apollo, I suppose. Ask him to watch Phoebe while I'm gone. But _would_ he?

The truth is, I don't know. I don't even know what _I_ would do, if it was just me. But it _is_ just me now – or it might as well be. Why is it _my_ job to take care of them? Why is it _my_ job to look after them?

And how long can I keep doing it?

It's getting darker. If Bentley doesn't return soon, if Apollo doesn't wake up, if Phoebe doesn't get better, if, if, if…

I can't do this.

My hands have stopped shaking. My breathing is … almost calm. It's as if something finally snapped, and it all … it all makes sense. I kneel down by Phoebe. Darrin said to take care of them. But what if this … what if this _is_ taking care of her? It's certainly better than what we've been doing. Better than waiting here, hoping for a miracle that will never come.

Silently, I wrap my hands around her throat. It's easy. So easy. She doesn't fight back. She can't. Maybe she wouldn't, even if she could. Maybe she would realize, too, that it's hopeless. That this is better than the death that other tributes might give her. And certainly better than trying to keep her alive for days. I squeeze a little harder. She doesn't wake up. She never will again, I realize as the cannon sounds. And that's … that's all right.

My gaze strays to Apollo, who hasn't woken – even with the sound of the cannon. He would wake up – if I tried to do it the same way. I glance around, scanning my surroundings in the dim light. Finally, I see what I want. What I _need_. What will free me from my promise to Darrin. He told me to protect them. But it's a promise I can't keep – a promise I won't _need_ to keep – if they're dead.

All of them.

I grip the rock tightly. It'll have to be quick. I take a deep breath, raising my arm, and then bring it down as hard as I can. The rock strikes Apollo's head with a splitting crack, and his eyes snap open. But before he has a chance to react, the rock comes down again. And again. He's coughing blood, his eyes wide. Confused. But not for long. It's only a moment more before his cannon sounds, and his eyes glaze over, blood dripping across his face. Blood coating the rock in my hand.

I stagger to my feet, backing away from the bodies. Away from my handiwork. Away from my promise to protect them, to keep them safe. I don't have to worry about them anymore. I'm free. And it feels … it feels good.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

I can't help feeling like there's something we're missing. Something we're not doing right. Something the other tributes clearly _are_ doing. There have been two more cannons since we left the top of the hill. Tributes are dying. Tributes are killing. There are only thirteen tributes left, and I haven't done … anything, really, except follow my allies around this damn arena. I finger my dagger as we head deeper into the forest. It's nearly dark. If the Gamemakers don't take the hint and send us something…

Then what? What am I going to do? What _can_ I do? We could split up, I suppose, but that didn't work out so well last time.

 _There's another option._

 _Shut up, Z!_ I have to fight the urge to shout the words out loud. What he's suggesting is dangerous and crazy and just feels _wrong_. But he _is_ right about there being another option. If we can't find any other tributes, there _are_ two tributes right next to me who eventually have to die if I want to go home.

But even if I wanted to … how could I kill _both_ of them? I'm walking behind them right now, but would I really be fast enough to stab both of them in the back before either of them noticed? And then what would I do? What would I tell Ivone about what happened?

No. No, actually, that's the easy part. I could tell her that we were attacked. That I was the only one who survived. She would probably believe it. Hell, I could probably even tell her that the two of them killed each other. We're all rather testy right now. It wouldn't take much for one of us to snap.

Unless … unless it's just me. Unless _I'm_ the only one who's feeling anxious. Restless. The only one who feels I haven't really earned my place here. My right to be in this group. Maybe even my right to still be alive. The others have at least killed _someone_. Maybe…

Maybe. That's all it is. The truth is, I have no idea. No real idea what they're feeling. What they're thinking. Even after two days with them, we haven't really spent much time _talking_. Getting to know each other. And I suppose that makes sense, but what do I really know about these two? My life could be in their hands at any moment, and I … I don't really have any idea whether or not I can trust them.

No. That's not true. I _can't_ trust them. Not if I want to go home. It's only a matter of time before it's them or me. Only a matter of time before I'll have to make my move.

* * *

 **Isaac Graves  
** **District Five Escort**

It was only a matter of time before she figured it out. Only a matter of time before Ada realized she couldn't keep protecting the others. I'm just sorry it happened while Apollo was there – asleep, defenseless, unable to fight back. Maybe things would have been better if he'd gone after Bentley. Maybe by the time they returned…

What? Ada would have regained her senses? No. Whatever happened, it's done – and there is no going back. Whatever snapped inside her, there's no fixing it – not until this is over. Unless she manages to make it through this alive.

I take a seat by Maverick, who's watching the screen intently alongside Titus. "Sorry," he offers. "About Apollo."

I nod a little. "I'm sorry, too – about yours."

"Mine?"

I glance over at Titus. "And yours. What Jayda and Isaac were saying before – about wishing they had some clue about where the other tributes were – I have a feeling the Gamemakers might grant their wish."

Titus shrugs. "Which is a bad thing because…"

"Because of the tributes they're closest to." I nod towards the map on the right side of the screen. "Think about it. Who else is in the area?"

"Charlotte and Julian," Titus answers matter-of-factly. "I don't see the problem."

Of course he doesn't. Because he's assumed from the start that Julian was a lost cause, and focused on Jayda, instead. But Maverick shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll lead them somewhere else – Ra and the others."

"Maybe," I agree vaguely. But we both know the truth. The only other tribute remotely close is Jae, and he's headed in the opposite direction. Away from the laughter he probably assumed was coming from a pair of much more capable tributes. If he'd ventured a little closer, he could probably have figured out who they were – and, with the element of surprise, could probably have killed both of them easily.

But he didn't. They got lucky. Lucky enough that nearly half of the tributes are dead … and they're still alive. But I can see in Maverick's face what he's already wondering: How much longer will that luck last?

* * *

 **First of all, my apologies for the long wait. Due to unforeseen personal circumstances, both Logan and Stars have had to drop out of this collaboration. Don't worry - they're both fine. They just can't handle the time commitment right now, and we didn't want to postpone updating until they've got more free time, because we aren't exactly sure when that will happen.**

 **Because it's just me now, updates may be a bit slower, but, I promise you, I _will_ finish this story. (Seeing as we're almost halfway through the Games, it'd just be silly to stop and summarize it now.) I just felt I owed you an explanation and politely ask for your patience and understanding.**

 **Lastly, there's a new poll up asking who you'd like to see in the final four. We asked for final six last story, but that's nearly half of the tributes who are left right now, so ... four it is.**

 **~ Winter**


	26. A Friend

**A Friend**

" _If this is the end of me, at least I have a friend with me, weapon in my hand, a command, and my men with me."_

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

I still can't bring myself to look back. I slowed down a while ago, but I haven't stopped. It's getting darker. Harder to see through the trees. I'm gasping for breath despite the fact that I'm barely walking – certainly not walking fast. I'm exhausted. I'm hungry. My body wants to stop.

But I can't. Because if I stop – if I'm no longer making any progress physically – then I'll have time to think. Time to remember. Time to try to come up with something – _anything_ – I could have done to stop Rick from dying.

There's nothing, of course. Not really. Not in the end. If I want to go home, he had to die. But did he really have to die like _that_?

Not that there are many good ways to die, I suppose. But right now … well, right now, dying in my sleep doesn't sound so bad. There's a part of me that wants to curl up next to the nearest tree and wait for the end. Wait for someone to find me. It wouldn't take much to kill me now. After two days without food, I doubt I'd be able to put up much of a fight.

Just like Rick…

Finally, I stop. I bend over, my hands on my knees, breathing hard. Anyone who's in the area would be able to hear me gasping, but I can't help it. I had to get away.

By now, though, it's clear that no one is following me. The tributes who attacked us must have decided not to chase me. Makes sense, I suppose. They probably considered Rick the bigger threat. He was older. Stronger. He definitely seemed – at least to someone who didn't know better – to know what he was doing.

And yet _I'm_ the one who's still alive. I'm the one who's here, while he's…

He's dead. There's no good way to put that. They killed him. Rick is dead. Lexi is dead. And I'm still here. There's a part of me that's still a bit … well, surprised by that. Eleven tributes are dead. _Eleven_. We're nearly halfway through the Games, and I'm still here.

I'm still here. But I have to keep moving, because if I don't find food – and soon – I won't be here for long. There has to be _something_ in this woods that I can eat, but it's getting too dark to tell where anything is – or where _I_ am.

Suddenly, my foot slips. "Damn it," I mutter. But then I realize _why_ I slipped. The ground is wet. There's water. _Real_ water, not swamp water. It's a little stream – not even a river, really – but it's something. I kneel down and dip my hands into the water, bringing some of it to my lips. It's still not _food_ , but it's definitely a start.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I still didn't find food, but at least I found something. Water, running downhill towards the swamp. A stream, or maybe even a river. It's getting too dark to tell just how wide the water is, or how deep. But that doesn't matter right now. It's water. Water I can _drink_. Water that doesn't have a giant sea serpent in it.

Unless it does, of course. It's not as if I'd be able to see it if there was one. But when the serpent came to attack us in the swamp, it was because we weren't doing anything. Because we weren't being interesting enough. Finding water might not sound that exciting, but it's _something_. Something that'll help keep us alive.

Us. I take a deep breath as I turn back towards the others. Ada and Apollo and … and Phoebe. If they're still alive. There have only been two cannons since I left, so I know at least _one_ of them is still alive. But how many of them?

And for how much longer?

 _Stop it._ Instead of heading back towards the others, I follow the river for a moment. It seems to be getting deeper as I head downhill. Makes sense, I suppose, if it's heading for the marsh. It just keeps flowing downhill. Keeps going. And maybe … maybe it's time for me to do the same.

Even the thought of it makes my stomach churn. The others are counting on me to come back with news … aren't they? I never really told them where I was going. For all they know, _I_ might be dead.

Maybe it's better if they think I am.

Because we all know that, eventually, we'll have to split up. And that 'eventually' is coming a lot sooner than I expected it to. There are only thirteen tributes left. If the four of us are all still alive, how long will it be before we have to split up, anyway? How much longer can we work together? Especially when _I'm_ doing all the work?

Well, not _all_ the work. Apollo came and scouted in this direction. But of the four of us, I'm the only one doing something right _now_ to help our progress. And, unless something happened while I was gone, I'm the only one of us who has killed.

Not that it was an impressive kill. But it's more than the others have done. I finger my knife, tucked safely in my pocket. It seems strange, since I was the second-youngest in our alliance to begin with. But maybe … maybe I have the best chance, after all. And maybe I'd be better off on my own.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Maybe I really am better off up here alone. There have been two cannons since the others left. Two more tributes who are dead. And I'm still safe up here at the top of the hill. Or, at least, as safe as I can hope to be. As safe as anyone can really expect to be in the Games.

Which is to say, not really safe at all. I keep pacing the edge of the hill. Sure, it _feels_ safer up here, but a tribute could come along at any moment. I have to pay attention. I have to stay alert. But at least I'm not actively walking into trouble. At least I'm not out there with the others, _looking_ for a fight.

I clutch my dagger tightly as the wind rustles through the trees farther down the hill. It's getting dark. _Too_ dark for me to be able to see all the way down there. If someone _is_ coming, this would be the perfect time. I can't be looking in every direction at once. And if they figure out that I'm the only one here...

The only one for _now_ , at least. The others are coming back. _When_ , exactly, I'm not sure, but there have only been two cannons. So at least one of them is still alive. Probably more than one. Hopefully all of them. Maybe those two cannons belonged to tributes that they _found_. Maybe neither of them belonged to my friends.

 _Allies._ Allies, not friends. Because as much as I hope that they're still alive – as much as I hope that they're coming back eventually – they can't stay alive forever. Not if I want to.

Suddenly, I can hear a noise. A soft pinging, in the sky above me. The flashing light of a parachute is heading off down the hill – a little bit to the left of where it was headed last night. Could it be that it's going to the same tribute? I turn my dagger over in my hands. That doesn't seem fair.

Of course, it's not as if the four of us _need_ anything right now. Food. Supplies. Weapons. We have everything we could want, so maybe the audience doesn't feel like they need to send us anything. Still, it would be nice to get _something_ , if only as a recognition that we're doing a good job. That we're on the right track.

But _are_ we? Unless those two cannons belonged to other tributes that Ra, Jayda, and Isaac found and killed, none of us have killed anyone since the very start of the Games. Maybe _that's_ why they haven't sent anything. Maybe they're waiting for us to prove ourselves. I just hope the others are up to the task, because I'm _not_ heading out into the forest alone in search of whoever got that parachute. Tonight – just for tonight – I can let them get lucky.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I didn't think I would get this lucky. The parachute settles to the ground between Apollo and Phoebe's bodies. As if the Capitol is … what? Acknowledging what I did? Approving of it? Maybe. I don't know. And, right now, I don't care. We haven't eaten since the start of the Games, and we've had nothing but swamp water to drink.

No. Not _we_. There is no we, I remind myself as I race to the package and tear it open. There's a loaf of bread inside. It's small, but it's warm. Immediately, I take a big bite. Then another. Within minutes, the entire loaf is gone. Only then do I notice the knife – a small knife tucked inside the package, along with a note. _3M, 5M, 7F, 10M, 11F, SE._

The first five pairs make sense. Males from Three, Five, and Ten. Females from Seven and Eleven. A list of the tributes who died today. But, to be honest, that's not much help to me. I knew three of those already. Darrin, Phoebe, and Apollo. The other two – the boy from Three and the girl from Seven – are more significant because of who they're _not_. They're not Bentley. He's still alive.

And of course he is. There have only been two cannons since he left, and those belonged to Phoebe and Apollo. So the list doesn't really help. But those last two letters at the end – SE – what's that supposed to mean? Southeast, maybe, but _what_ is southeast? More food? Water? Another tribute? Is that the way Bentley went? I'm not really sure which way _is_ southeast.

Okay. Okay, think. The sun was setting off to the right as I was facing the hill. So that's west. Towards the hill would be south, then – more or less. So southeast – around the hill to my left? That's the way Bentley went. Are the Gamemakers trying to lead me to him?

And if they are, what do they want me to do?

The answer to that is obvious. They could have sent me plenty of food for the two of us. Instead, they sent me a small loaf of bread for me … and a knife. They want me to kill him.

The thought shouldn't bother me, maybe. I already killed Phobe and Apollo, after all. What's one more dead ally? But they were sleeping. Phoebe was injured, and Apollo … well, he was tired. He was tired of walking, tired of running – maybe tired of living. Maybe Bentley feels the same. Maybe I can pretend he does long enough to…

But he won't be asleep. Probably not, at least. If I find him, I'll have to fight. He's younger than me, but that's no guarantee in a fight. A boy his age _won_ last year, after all.

But avoiding the fight … that's not a choice. Not anymore. The Capitol sent me a gift because they saw what I did. What I was willing to do. And if I want to go home, I have to be willing to _keep_ doing it. There isn't a choice any more.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

There isn't a choice anymore, really. I have to get some sleep. This isn't a great place for it, but maybe there _isn't_ any great place to settle down in the arena. Maybe that's why tributes are dying so quickly.

Or, at least, it certainly seems like they're dying quickly. There are only thirteen of us left. Only one more than half. And I'm still here. I'm still alive.

But will I still be alive in the morning?

 _Stop._ There are no guarantees that I'll make it through the night, but what could happen if I don't sleep now is even worse. If I don't sleep at night, I might simply collapse from exhaustion and fall asleep during the _day_ , when it would be easier for another tribute to find me. At least this way, I'll be harder to spot. It's dark – very dark. With any luck, no one will find me. With any luck, no one will even be looking. Maybe everyone else will be sleeping, too.

I shake my head as I lie down under the largest tree I can find. I don't really believe that – that everyone else is sleeping. They certainly weren't last night, if the number of cannons is anything to go by. And, really, it's all I _have_ to go by. It's not as if they've sent me a parachute or anything.

Then again, why would they? I haven't killed anyone. I've lost both of my allies. I've barely been surviving. And while surviving may be good enough for me, it doesn't look particularly impressive to the Capitol. If I want something from them – even their attention – I'm going to have to do something drastic.

I hold back a yawn as I close my eyes. I'm too tired to really think about that right now. And too tired to make a decision that might end badly. Best to get some rest first. Maybe things will seem different in the morning.

Different. If anything, they'll be worse. It's not as if food is going to magically appear overnight. But there's nothing I can do about that. I'll be hungry in the morning – that's just the way it is. For right now, I need some sleep.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

Maybe I just need some sleep. My head has been aching ever since the boy from three slammed it against the ground. Mel has been telling me to get some sleep, to let her keep watch, and maybe she's right. It certainly worked well enough last night.

But last night, there were more tributes left. There are only thirteen of us left in the Games. Only a little more than half. How long can Mel and I keep working together? I told her earlier that we made a good team, but how long can that last? How long before she realizes that maybe she doesn't need me anymore?

Or maybe I don't need her.

I glance over at Mel as I finally settle down on the ground. "Wake me when you get tired," I offer, and she nods crisply. That's good enough for me. For now. For now, I need her. And she'll need me, if she plans on sleeping tonight. After that…

What comes after that, I can figure out in the morning. I'm too tired to think right now. My head hurts too much. I should be grateful to be alive, but, right now, I just want to sleep.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

He's almost asleep before he lays his head down on a tree root. Maybe he's more tired than I thought. Or maybe that boy hurt him worse than I thought when he slammed him against the ground. Jethro didn't say anything about being in pain, but why would he? It's not as if I can do anything about it. And it's not as if anyone in the Capitol would care.

I swallow hard. That's not fair. _Some_ of them must care. It's not as if everyone in the Capitol is a heartless monster. Our escort, Phoenix, was always nice enough. And yet … we still have the Games. Enough people in the Capitol were in favor of the Games – or at least not openly against them – that they were a success last year. There was no objection. No protest. At least, not one that we ever saw.

But would we? If people in the Capitol disagreed with the Games, how would we even find out? There could be people watching right now who are sickened by what's going on, and we would never know the difference. The only ones we see – the president, the Gamemakers, the host, the escorts – are the ones who are excited about the Games. If there are people who aren't, they probably have the sense to stay hidden.

I lean back against a tree, staring out into the darkness of the trees in front of me. It doesn't matter what they think. Doesn't matter, really, whether any of them care that we're here. We _are_ here, in the Games, fighting for our lives. I _killed_ a boy today. And I did it because of them. Because of what they're doing to us. Or, at best, because of what they're allowing to happen. This is their fault – not mine.

I swallow hard, trying to believe it. That it isn't really my fault that there's a dead body only a little ways away from us in the woods. The boy from Three is dead. I killed him. Yes, he was about to kill Jethro, but I still did it. Might have done it even if he _hadn't_ been about to kill my ally. I don't know. I don't know what I would have done if the circumstances had been just a little different.

And that … that scares me. More than I'd like to admit. I don't know what I would have done. What I would have felt. I don't even really know what I _am_ feeling right now, except exhausted. Only two days into the Games, and I already want this to be over. I'm almost _desperate_ for it to end.

But there are only two ways it ends. Either I die, or I have to kill again. And again. There are thirteen of us left. How many of the others will I have to kill if I want to survive?

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

There's no telling when I might have to be ready to kill again. I finger my axe silently as I settle down against a tree, waiting in the dark. I'm not exactly tired – I got some sleep earlier – but there's no point in trying to make my way through the woods in the dark. I'd make too much noise. Attract too much attention. If I stay put, I'll save my energy, and have a smaller chance of being noticed.

I grip the handle of the axe tightly at the thought. I haven't been noticed so far – not by the other tributes, and probably not by the audience in the Capitol, either. Sure, I killed the girl from Seven, but it wasn't as if that was much of a fight. Chopping down her tree kept me from having to face her in a fair fight. If I was up against someone who wasn't pinned by a tree branch, would I really have a chance?

It would depend on who the other tribute was, I suppose. I could probably handle one of the younger, smaller ones. I'm armed. I'm one of the older tributes. But, at the end of the day, there's only one of me. If a larger group happens to find me…

Then I'll just have to make sure they don't. Larger groups probably make a lot more noise as they're heading through the forest. Hell, maybe larger groups would avoid the forest entirely. If the group of five decided to stay at the top of the hill, this is probably the safest place for me to be.

Probably. There are no guarantees. I'm not really safe here – or anywhere in the arena. No one is safe until the last cannon sounds. Until the Victor is decided, anything could happen. Anything.

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

Anything could happen. Any moment now. Any second. The woods are getting darker as the clouds cover what little light is coming from the stars. There's still enough light from the moon to see some shadows and shapes, but every little rustle of the wind through the trees sounds like footsteps.

I grip my dagger tighter as we make our way through the trees. In front of me, both Jayda and Ra are clutching their weapons tightly, as well, glancing this way and that, watching for any sign of movement. My whole body is tense. Too tense. _We're_ supposed to be the ones who are hunting. There's no reason for us to be nervous. Tributes will be hiding from _us_. Trying to get away from _us_. No one would be stupid enough to attack three armed tributes. Would they?

I don't know. Maybe not stupid. Maybe just desperate. We have some food in our packs, after all – we made sure to bring plenty in case we're gone longer than we thought. If someone happens to notice that, it might be enough to prompt an attack.

And if they're going to attack anyone, it'll probably be me. Not because I'm the weakest or anything, but because I'm at the back of the group. They might figure they could sneak up on me from behind without anyone noticing. And they might be right. I glance behind me quickly before scooting up a little closer to Ra and Jayda. Neither of them says anything. Neither of them accuses me of being afraid. Maybe they're just as scared as I am.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

Maybe he's just as afraid as I am. Just as afraid as Ra is, if he's got any sense – which I'm not entirely sure about. He seems confident. But how much of that is just an act? I'm trying to appear confident, too – for the Capitol's sake. Maybe Ra's doing the same thing. Trying to convince the Capitol that he knows what he's doing. That he's not scared.

And it's not as if I'm about to _admit_ that I'm afraid – not in front of the audience. So we keep going. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Because none of us are willing to suggest that we turn around and go back. We can't afford to look like a bunch of frightened kids who are scared of the dark. We have to keep going if we're going to have any chance of success tonight.

Success. What, exactly, I'm hoping for, I'm not sure. Stumbling across anyone in the dark seems like a million-to-one chance right now. We're having the same problem we had last night – the forest is just too damn big. The chances of running into each other are too small, especially when we can't see a thing.

We can't _see_ a thing.

Suddenly, Ra stops. Maybe he's thinking the same thing I am. We can't _see_ anything, but we can hear. And I definitely hear something in the distance. Something that sounds like voices. Or, at least, I think it does. It's hard to tell. Whatever it is, it's quiet. It could be an animal. It could just be the wind. But, right now, it's all we have to go on.

I nod to Ra, holding a finger to my lips. He nods back and turns to the right – towards the sound. As we get a little closer, I can tell that it _is_ , in fact, voices. A boy and a girl, I think. And one of the voices sounds familiar.

 _Shit_.

I know one of the voices. And, as I glance over at Ra, I can tell that he recognizes the other. He looks as surprised as I am. Maybe he wasn't expecting them to be alive. I know I wasn't. Because one of those voices belongs to my district partner.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

One of those voices belongs to my district partner. I don't know how she's managed it. I don't know how she and her blind ally managed to survive this long. But, somehow, they have. They're still alive.

And now we're going to have to kill them.

That thought makes me more uncomfortable than I'd like to admit. Throughout training, I was never particularly attached to Charlotte, but I never relished the thought that I might be the one to kill her. Once she made it away from the top of the hill at the start of the Games, I was hoping that would be the last I saw of her. That someone else would find her before I could.

But we weren't that lucky – Jayda and I. Even in the dim light, I can see the indecision on her face. She doesn't want to kill Julian. She doesn't want to kill a blind kid who, by all rights, shouldn't have made it this far. But they're the first tributes we've actually managed to _find_. We can't afford to walk away from a pair of easy kills. Not when there are only thirteen tributes left. Soon, it'll have to be eleven.

Isaac takes a step forward, shaking us from our hesitation. "So what's the plan?" he whispers, too quietly for our district partners to hear, even if they're listening. Which they probably aren't. They're chatting with each other, and I thought I heard one of them laugh a moment ago. It seems a shame to interrupt them now, but…

But it's what we have to do, if we want to survive. It's what _I_ have to do. Jayda glances back and forth from Isaac to me, then back again. "All right," she whispers. "Here's what we do."

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

What are we supposed to do now? Julian and I fell silent when we heard tree branches cracking in the distance a moment ago, but it's hard to tell which way they're coming from. One comes from the left, then another from the right. Maybe we're surrounded. Or maybe it's an animal. Or maybe it's just the wind. There's no way to know for sure, until…

Then I can see a figure, off in the distance to the left. "Get up," I whisper to Julian, taking my own dagger and handing him his spear as the figure approaches. I can see another one now – approaching from the right. And a third, coming from behind us. We're surrounded. They're armed. There's nothing to do but fight.

"Run," Julian whispers, but we both know it's too late for that. Too late for either us to escape. We got lucky last time, when the note that came with our parachute warned us in advance to run. This time, we don't have a choice.

I position myself facing two of the attackers – more or less – and back-to-back with Julian. "Wait for them to attack first," I whisper. Obviously. It wouldn't do any good for him to try to strike first against an enemy he can't see. We're already surrounded. The best thing we can do is wait for them to attack and hope they make a mistake. Hope they underestimate us.

"Hello, Charlotte." I nearly jump when I hear the voice. _Well, shit_.

I suppose it makes sense, really, now that I think about it. Who else's group would be out hunting in the middle of the night? Who else could still have this many allies left? "Hello, Ra."

"Ra?" Julian asks softly. "Does that mean—"

"Jayda's here, too," I confirm. "They're the two in front of me – Isaac is in front of you."

"Isaac?"

"Twelve." They're almost close enough to strike now. "He's got a dagger. Your spear is longer. Use that – hold him off."

Right. Even with a longer weapon, he doesn't stand a chance against someone who can see. And I won't be able to fight off two tributes in time to help him. This is it. This is really it. I'm not ready.

"I know," Julian whispers. Maybe I said the words aloud. Maybe he can tell I'm not ready for this. "Together?"

I take a deep breath. "Together."

* * *

 **Isaac Swarthy, 16  
** **District Twelve**

Together. If that's how they want to die, that's fine with me and _Z_. I take a step closer. Then another. The blind boy raises his spear, swings it in my direction. I don't even have to dodge. He wasn't even close.

This is going to be too easy.

I can see Ra and Jayda on the other side of the pair, approaching slowly. Cautiously. As if they're still expecting some sort of trick. But it's obvious now that these two don't have anything up their sleeves. They're prepared to die here, back-to-back, defending each other.

I take another step closer, dodging his spear. Ducking below it. A quick slice across one of his legs brings him down, and before the girl can do anything to interfere, Ra and Jayda move in. The boy jabs his spear blindly up at me, but it's easy to dodge. I take a step closer, making a grab at his spear and finally catching hold. It's easy – almost too easy – to yank it from his grasp. "Is that really the best you can do?" I spit. _Z_ is having fun.

No. _I'm_ having fun. The boy staggers to his feet, weaponless, blood dripping from his injured leg. I give him a shove away from the fight. Away from his ally. Away from anyone who can help him.

* * *

 **Charlotte Jacquard, 17  
** **District One**

I'm too far away to help him. I can see Julian out of the corner of my eye – and I can see the boy from Twelve driving him away from us. Splitting up the fight. But that's all I have time to catch as Ra's spear swings towards me. I duck. Dodge. But Jayda is getting too close, and her dagger finally meets mine. Ra circles around, but he seems more interested in keeping me from going anywhere than in actually fighting me.

But Jayda's strong enough for both of them. One stroke, then another. I dodge one, block another, then dodge again, but I'm breathing hard. Suddenly, Ra swings his spear against the back of my legs, and I topple to the ground. Before I can scramble to my feet, Jayda's blade slices across my stomach, and blood begins to spill out. Warm and wet and sticky, spilling across the ground. I grip my dagger tightly, but it's useless. Ra takes a step back, offering Jayda his spear. She nods a little as she takes it. Raises it. Drives it down into my chest.

At least it's quick…

* * *

 **Julian Masters, 16  
** **District Two**

He has no intention of making it quick. "One down," the boy from Twelve gloats as the cannon sounds. Charlotte's cannon, I have no doubt. I can't see what's happening, but if she was facing both Ra and Jayda … she knew. She knew this was the end.

Some sort of blade slices across my arm as something presses into my chest. The boy's knee, probably. I don't have to see his face to know he's smiling. He's won. So why doesn't he just get it over with? I wriggle a little beneath him, but I know it's useless. It's always been useless.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

We both know it's useless. Ra and I hurry over to Isaac as the girl's cannon sounds, but it's already obvious he doesn't need our help. He has Julian pinned with his knee, squirming as Isaac traces his dagger along his arm. Then his chest.

I don't think. Can't think. Before I even realize what I'm doing, Ra's spear is buried in Isaac's back. Isaac slumps over on top of Julian, his eyes wide even as the cannon sounds. I kick his body off of Julian and retrieve Ra's spear. Julian inches backwards a little but still doesn't stand. Maybe he can't stand. "What happened? Charlotte?"

I shake my head before reminding myself he can't see it. "Charlotte's dead." I take a step back, handing the spear to Ra. "I'm sorry, Julian."

Julian sits up a little, wincing in pain. "Just … just make it quick."

Ra does. He drives the spear deep into my district partner's chest, and Julian's cannon sounds immediately. He's dead. I didn't kill him, but still…

Ra lays a hand on my shoulder, and I look up, startled. "Well done. He was extra baggage, anyway." It takes me a moment to realize that he's talking about Isaac. That I killed _Isaac_. An ally. An ally who was about to kill my district partner. A district partner who had to die anyway, but still…

I'm not sure what to make of any of it. Ra nods a little, as if he understands. Maybe he does. After all, his district partner is dead, as well. I killed her. And he killed mine. At least that way, neither of us will have to face our district knowing that we killed someone else from our home. Maybe it's a little thing – and maybe it's semantics – but maybe it counts for something.

But it only counts for _anything_ if I survive this. If I'm dead, no one in the district will care whether or not I killed Julian. And I'm sure Ra is thinking the same thing. But he simply lays his spear down and begins to search the bodies for anything useful. After a moment, he chuckles.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I can't help chuckling when I see the note. The note that could only have come from a parachute – a parachute that's nowhere in sight. So it's not tonight's parachute. Therefore, it must be from last night. _They_ got a parachute last night. _They_ were the tributes we were chasing.

At least we finally found them. We finally did something – something the audience will certainly enjoy. Our district partners are dead. Jayda killed an ally – but not, I must say, an ally I'm sorry to be rid off. He was always more of a nuisance than anything else. But Jayda…

If I'm being honest, I'm glad Jayda is still alive. That the pair of us made it through the fight unscathed. Not that it was much of a fight, in the end. But it was something. And maybe enough to keep the audience satisfied, especially now that there are only ten of us left.

Ten. Only ten. I hand the paper to Jayda, who shakes her head, taking in the tributes listed. _D4F, D6F, D8M, D9M, D10F, D11M_. The tributes who died on the first day – most of which we knew already. Ivone killed the girl from Four. I killed the girl from Six. Jayda killed the boy from Eleven. We knew Hannah was dead. That leaves the boys from Eight and Nine, neither of whom is really a surprise. The boy from Nine was one of the boy from Eleven's allies, and the boy from Eight was only Twelve years old. I would be more surprised if he _was_ still alive.

Then again, I was pretty surprised to see Charlotte and Julian still alive, as well. So there's no telling who else might still be alive. Jayda and I trade a look as we head back for the top of the hill. We'll have to come up with some sort of explanation for how Isaac died, but that shouldn't be too hard. We just don't want to tell Ivone that we killed her district partner.

* * *

 **Grant Aquinas  
** **District Twelve Escort**

And, just like that, there are no pairs of district partners left. Ten tributes left, but no district pairs. The pairs from One, Two, and Twelve were the last, and now…

Honestly, I'm surprised both Isaac and Ivone have lasted this long. Then again, I wasn't expecting Elijah to last to the final five last year, and he did. Surviving this long doesn't really mean anything if they still end up dead. Isaac is just as dead as the boy from Eleven, who died first. And even if Ivone is the last to die, she'll still be dead. The only thing that really matters is who comes home.

And I was never really expecting it to be either of them. Or anyone from District Twelve. Hell, look at who won last year. A kid from One who was the son of two Capitol soldiers. And you can bet the Capitol had a hand in that. District Twelve? They're rebels through and through. I knew that when I volunteered to be an escort – knew I might get stuck with one of the more rebellious districts – but I was still hoping I wouldn't get saddled with one like Twelve.

It won't be long, though. Won't be long before some of the other escorts decide this is too much for them. Won't be long before some of them decide to retire, and I'll get to move up. Until then, I'll just have to wait and hope my tributes don't wind up being too much of an embarrassment to their lousy district.

And so far, they're leaving a bit to be desired in that area. Isaac couldn't even manage to kill a blind kid quickly, and Ivone is still stuck at the top of the hill watching the others' supplies. Not exactly an impressive showing, considering what their allies have done. But there's time, I suppose – for Ivone, at least. For Isaac – and for thirteen other tributes – that time is over.


	27. Enough

**Enough**

" _So long as you come home at the end of the day, that would be enough."_

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

The cannons wake me in the middle of the night. Or, at least, as near as I can figure, it's the middle of the night. I _finally_ managed to fall asleep, and then … Boom. Or, more accurately, _boom boom boom._ Three cannons. Three more tributes dead. That makes fourteen. There are only ten of us left.

If I'm going to do something, it has to be soon. If I run into someone else now, chances are they'll be armed. They'll be ready. And they certainly won't be starving. I need food and water – and _soon_. And there's only one place I'm sure I'll be able to get it.

I sit up a little, trying to talk myself out of it. There's a reason I've been avoiding going back to the top of the hill. I'm unarmed. Anyone who's still up there has plenty of weapons at their disposal. It wouldn't be hard for them to overpower me.

But that's assuming that someone _is_ at the top of the hill. Maybe they aren't. Judging from the number of cannons that have been going off, there certainly can't be very many people still up there. And if there's only one – or maybe even two – maybe I'll be able to sneak past and grab something. I don't need much. Just some food. Just a _little_ food. That would be enough. Enough to keep me going for a while, at least.

I take a deep breath and get to my feet, heading uphill. I don't want to. But it's the only choice I have left. I have to do _something_ , or I'm going to starve. And that's not the way I want to go.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I'm not sure this is the way we really want to go. Back towards the top of the hill seems like the logical choice, but … I don't know. We've had good luck so far tonight. Maybe if we keep moving through the forest, we'll find someone else. What's the point in heading back to the top of the hill? It's not as if anyone is going to be there.

Well, anyone except Ivone, I suppose. She's still waiting for us at the top of the hill. Or, at least, we can only assume she is. There have been five cannons since we parted ways. Three of them belonged to Charlotte, Julian, and Isaac. The other two … who knows? Either one of them could have been hers.

If she's alive, of course, she's probably thinking the same thing about us. And, as far as Isaac goes, she's right. Maybe that's the real reason I don't want to head back to the top of the hill. Her district partner is dead. So is mine, of course – and so is Ra's. But we were here. We know what happened. She'll just have to take our word for it. And I'm not entirely sure what I want to tell her.

I could tell her the truth, of course. Isaac was purposelessly hurting Julian instead of giving him a quick death. I snapped. Maybe she would understand. Sure, she and Isaac are from the same district, but they never seemed particularly close. The last time we split up, she went with me without question, without even asking to go with her district partner, instead. Maybe she won't care. Or, at least, maybe she'll pretend not to. He was going to have to die, anyway – surely she realizes that.

Even still … I knew that all along about Julian. I knew he would have to die. But it still feels wrong. It still hurts. And I'm still glad I wasn't the one who had to kill him.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I'm still glad I wasn't the one who had to kill her. Charlotte had to die eventually, of course, but I'm just as glad I wasn't the one to do it. Besides, I ended the night with a kill. Jayda got two, but only because she decided to rid us of Isaac. Now we're down to three – assuming Ivone is still alive. Three of us. Ten tributes left. And it's only been two days.

Technically, I suppose, it's the start of the third day. It must be past midnight by now. Still, there's no sign of a sunrise, so it can't be too late. There's still plenty of darkness left. Plenty of time left before…

Before what? Before we have to head back to meet Ivone? Jayda doesn't appear to be in much of a rush. We've been heading back up the hill, but not straight up. She's been zigzagging for a while – maybe hoping to stumble upon someone else along the way. I can't really say I blame her for that. We came out here looking for a fight, and found a blind boy and a girl we easily overpowered. On the one hand, I'm glad we both came out of the fight unharmed. We're both alive, and maybe that should be enough. But on the other hand…

On the other hand, that fight couldn't have looked particularly impressive to the Capitol. The audience is still watching, and they expect more from us than that. Maybe that's what Isaac was trying to give them, but he had the wrong idea. The Capitol proved last year that simply drawing out someone's death isn't enough to impress them. And both then and now, it had the opposite of the intended effect. It just makes people angry.

No, drawing out a fight against a helpless opponent isn't the answer. The answer is finding someone who will actually pose a challenge. But I can't help wondering whether there's anyone in the arena who does.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

I can't help wondering if they're even alive. There have been five cannons since Ra, Jayda, and Isaac left the top of the hill. Fifteen tributes then, ten tributes now. What are the chances that none of the cannons belonged to them? Pretty slim.

And if some of the cannons _were_ theirs – if some or all of them _are_ dead – then what am I supposed to do? How long before some other group realizes that it's just me at the top of the hill? How long before I become a target up here?

Okay. Okay, just breathe. I can wait until morning, at least. Maybe things will seem a bit less frightening then. It's scarier than I'd like to admit up here, surrounded by all sorts of weapons. Maybe that should be a comfort, but it's not. If someone sneaks up here, all they'd have to do is grab one of the weapons and stab me in the back. Even if they weren't armed before, they would be pretty quickly. Would I really have a chance of stopping them?

Yes. Yes, I'd have to. Because that's why I volunteered to stay up here in the first place. It's my job to make sure that the others still have something to come back to. Food and water and supplies – more than enough to last us the rest of the Games. But if they never come back…

And even if they do, there are only ten tributes left. And four of us, if all of them are still alive. How much longer can we keep pretending to be a team? How long before one of us has to make a move?

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

How much longer before one of us has to make a move? Cannon after cannon has sounded, and we're still here – the two of us. Jethro and me. Just like at the start of the Games. And maybe that's impressive – that we've both lasted this long – but we both knew from the start that it can't last forever. We can't both survive this. We can't both go home.

I turn my knife over in my hands, staring out into the darkness. The cannons woke me a while ago, and Jethro and I traded watches again. Neither of us has been sleeping very well. Jethro won't complain, but I know his head is hurting. I just wish there was something I could do to help.

Or do I? After all, if he's at a disadvantage – if he's still dizzy or weak from our previous fight – then that gives me a better chance. Doesn't it? At the very least, it makes it less likely that he'll attack me. He needs me. More than I need him.

That's a strange feeling, really. I never thought, at the start of the Games, that I would be the one taking care of him. He was the one who seemed to know what he was doing. He was the one who always looked like he had a plan. Now … now he's just sleeping here beside me. He almost looks peaceful. Almost looks like he trusts me to watch out for him while he's sleeping.

And why not? It's not as if I'm about to kill him in his sleep or anything. There are still ten tributes left – most of them older and stronger than us. I still need him. There's strength in numbers – our last fight certainly proved that. It can't last forever, but there's no reason to turn on each other yet. Not yet.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

There's no reason to start moving yet. There have been cannons – quite a few recently – but I haven't heard any screams or anything nearby. Besides, it's still too dark to really see where I'm going. If I set off now, I'll probably just end up making a lot of noise. Noise that might attract other tributes.

But even if I don't – even if I stay here and try to hide – there are no guarantees that that'll be enough to save me. There are no guarantees at all. No surefire ways to stay alive. Lexi is dead. Rick is dead. I couldn't do anything to save either of them. And if someone finds me, there's nothing anyone else will be able to do to save me.

Not that there's anyone left in the arena who would want to, even if they could. Everyone in here who cared about me is already dead. If I run into someone else – no, _when_ I run into someone else – they'll almost certainly be trying to kill me. There's no one left in the arena who I could call a friend.

I swallow hard as I lie down to try to get some sleep. Maybe … well, maybe that's for the best. Sure, it means I have no one else I can trust, but it also means I have no one else to lose. No one left in the arena I need to care about. No one I need to try to protect.

As if I could really have protected them in the first place. Lexi, Rick – they both needed to die in order for me to make it home. Eventually, someone had to kill them. Maybe I should just be glad that it wasn't me.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

Maybe I should just be glad that I'm still alive. Maybe that should be enough, but I can't help wondering about the others. About Ada and Apollo and Phoebe. There have been five cannons since I left them. Five cannons since I last saw them alive. What if that was the last time I'll ever see _any_ of them alive? They thought I was just going to relieve myself. What if they died because I didn't make it back in time to help them? I have our only weapon, after all – I brought my knife with me. Did I leave them defenseless?

But if they were attacked – if someone found them, if someone _killed_ them – how much of a difference would I really have made? One more person. One weapon. It isn't as if I would have been able to protect all of them. No, as much as I hate to admit it, I'd probably be in exactly the same position. I would probably have run. Of course, I might not have had the chance to run. If I'd stayed, one of those cannons might have been mine. And if I go back now…

If I go back, my cannon might be next. Whoever killed my allies – if they are, in fact, dead – might still be there. If they're dead, there's nothing to go back to. If they're alive, they've probably assumed I'm dead by now. Either way, going back … it doesn't seem like the right move. Maybe I'm simply afraid. Afraid of what I'll find. Afraid that they're all dead, maybe – but also afraid that they aren't. That they're still exactly where I left them.

Because if they are – if they're still there, after all this time – it'll be even harder to convince them to get moving again. And if they _have_ moved – assuming they're still alive – then I have no way to find them.

I close my eyes as I lie back down again, my breathing finally steadying a little bit after the fright of the last cannon. There isn't a choice any more – not really. If I want to live, I can't go back. If I want to live, then I don't have allies any more.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I don't have allies any more. The package from the Capitol made that clear, and the last three cannons have been enough to confirm it. Darrin is dead. I killed Phoebe and Apollo. If Bentley is alive, he's no longer an ally. If anything, he's a target. He's my prey. Because that's what the Capitol wants. This is what I have to do. This is what I have to _be._

It feels odd to be so certain. I don't know that I've ever been this certain about anything in my life. Definitely not anything in the Games. I wasn't even this certain about choosing allies in the first place. Most of us just sort of … ended up together. Our alliance wasn't really built around anything aside from a mutual desire to not be alone. To have _someone_ with us.

But that isn't enough – not enough to hold a group together once the Games start. Because eventually, if someone wants to survive, they _have_ to be alone. And maybe I'm better off this way. Better off alone.

Or maybe I'm worse. Maybe it doesn't matter. Better. Worse. That's not important right now. All that's important is staying alive.

If I win, then I can sort out the rest. The right and wrong. The good and bad. The friends and victims. None of that matters right now. Only the Game matters. Win or lose. Win or _die_. And I intend to win.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

It's strange – the feeling that I might actually be able to win. There are only ten of us left. Only ten tributes left in the Games. And I'm … well, not in a great position, but certainly not in a bad one. I have food and water. I'm armed. And I'm completely uninjured. The downside, of course, is that it's still just me. I'm alone. If more than one tribute finds me…

But how many groups are left? How many groups _can_ be left? Certainly if there are groups that are still together, things must be growing tense. Elinor and I never really discussed when we should split up if we both made it far into the Games, but splitting up seemed like a better idea than the alternative.

The alternative. Killing each other – that's what neither of us ever wanted to say. And neither of us had to, as it turned out. She's dead. I don't have to worry about killing her. Hell, maybe I don't really have to worry about killing _anyone_. There have been seven cannons since I killed the girl from Seven, and none of them have been my doing. The other tributes seem to be killing each other off just fine without my help.

But, as much as I'd like to just sit back and watch them fight it out, I know that can't last forever. Eventually, I'll have to fight again. But maybe it's better to wait as long as I can before that happens. After all, the fact that I'm still uninjured may end up being my biggest advantage. So many of the tributes last year ended up injured before the end, and that hampered their abilities in the final battle.

The final battle. I shake my head, leaning back against a tree. It feels strange, already thinking about the final battle. But there are only ten of us – after two days. If the Games continue at this pace, I may only have another day or two left in the arena. And then I'll either be back in the Capitol, or I'll be dead.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

Maybe I should just be glad I'm not dead. Two days in the arena. Ten tributes left. And I'm still alive. But my head aches like hell, and if I'm being honest, I'm still a bit dizzy every time I try to move too quickly or stand for too long. I know better than to complain, of course. It's not as if there's anything I can do about it. Nothing but rest and keep surviving.

If I do – if I survive, if I make it back to the Capitol – then I won't have to worry about a headache. Or a concussion. Or whatever this is. They'll take care of it, just like they took care of the boy's injuries last year. But first I have to survive. And fighting in the condition I'm in isn't going to be easy. If someone finds us now…

Well, if they do, I'm just glad I have Mel with me. But that's the problem, really. I won't have Mel forever – not if I want to get out of here. Eventually, she'll have to die. I may even have to _kill_ her. And right now … I'm not sure if I'd be able to. Physically or mentally. She saved my life, when the boy from Three was on top of me. She could have let me die. Even _thinking_ about killing her after that feels wrong.

I clench my fists tightly. _All_ of this is wrong. But that doesn't matter right now. It _can't_ matter, if I want to survive. If I make it out of this alive, then I can worry about feeling guilty. Then I can worry about whether what I did was right or wrong. Right now, all that matters is what's going to help me survive.

And right now that means rest. Once it's morning, then we can worry about our next move. Right now, I'm too tired to even _think_ about what to do next. There's a part of me that just wants this to be over – one way or another. Then maybe I can get some rest.

* * *

 **Franklin Brackish, 53  
** **Uncle of Jethro Brackish**

I haven't gotten a good night's rest since the reaping. Guess I'd never realized, really, how much I'd gotten used to having Jethro around. When his folks shipped him off to live with me during the rebellion, I thought he was a bit of a bother at first. I'd never asked for a kid. I'd never _wanted_ a kid. There was a reason I'd stayed single all these years. Never imagined I'd make much of a parent.

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. But I must've done something right, because he's still alive. He's managed to stay alive for two whole days in the Games, which is something most of the other tributes haven't been able to do. He killed a boy. His ally, Mel, killed another boy in order to save him. Not bad for a pair of younger tributes. They make a pretty good team.

And, if I'm being honest, that's what's worrying me the most right now – the idea that they make too _good_ of a team. That he might be relying on her a bit too much. If it weren't for her, he could be dead right now. And while she's kept him alive so far, it's only a matter of time before one of them decides that they don't really need the other any more.

I just hope Jethro is the one to make that choice. That sounds awful – hoping that he'll have the guts to kill his ally before she turns on him. But the alternative is worse. The idea of her killing _him_ because he trusted her too much … that idea hurts even more. I can live with the idea of him killing – even killing a friend – if it means he gets to come back home.

Because, if I'm being honest … damn, I miss that kid. He's all I've got left. I never imagined I'd get so attached, but kids have a way of growing on you. Like moss on rocks at the bottom of the sea. Well, not _exactly_ like that, I guess, but I guess what I'm trying to say is I hope he makes it home. Whatever it takes, whatever he has to do, as long as he gets to come back home to me, that would be enough.

* * *

 **Bora Park, 49  
** **Mother of Jae Park**

I'm just glad Jae's decided to play it smart so far. He probably hasn't really caught the audience's attention since killing the girl from Seven, but that's all right. He's still alive. He's well-supplied and, aside from being a bit sleepy, he's in good shape. He just has to keep doing what he's doing – sticking close to the ground and only killing when he's sure he'll be able to do so without getting hurt.

And maybe that seems a bit unfair – striking when an opponent is already down. The girl from Seven never stood a chance once he chopped down her tree. He was armed. She was helpless. Maybe it wasn't a fair fight. But maybe that doesn't matter, as long as he's alive.

I know how awful that sounds. Because I know that if their positions were reversed – if she had been the one who chopped down his tree and slew him without a second thought – I would hate her. I would hate what she did to my son. I wouldn't want to understand. I wouldn't want to think about what was going through her head, how she just wanted to go home…

Because I know that's what was going through his mind. He's not a killer. He's not vicious. He just … he just knew she had to die. That's how the Games work. Only one person survives, and if I want it to be him, then everyone else in that whole damn arena has to die. Nine more tributes have to die, if I want my boy back.

And I do want him back. More than ever. Whatever it takes. Whatever he has to do. Even if he has to kill every single one of the tributes who's left, even if he comes out of the arena with innocent blood on his hands … I just want him to come back home. That would be enough.

* * *

 **Luna Lavoisier, 18  
** **Sister of Ada Lavoisier**

I just wish she hadn't killed both of them. Phoebe, I can understand. She was dying, anyway. But Apollo? I just wish I knew what was going through her head. Why would she kill him, too? Did she think he was going to kill her? Did she know that taking the initiative and killing both of them would earn her points with the Capitol audience, and might prompt them to send her a parachute? That doesn't sound like Ada, but maybe…

I know he had to die. I get that. Everyone in the arena has to die eventually if I want my sister back. But that doesn't mean _she_ had to be the one to kill him. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it _shouldn't_ matter. But even the boy from One and the girl from Two went out of their way to avoid killing their district partners, each allowing the other one to strike the final blow.

Maybe that's just a formality. A technicality. Maybe it shouldn't matter … and maybe it doesn't, at least to me. But it matters to the _district_. And it sure as hell matters to Apollo's family. How are we supposed to explain that to them? How can I explain why my sister killed their son, their brother. He had a sister – a sister who's Ada's age. A sister only a year younger than me. How am I supposed to face them? How are any of us supposed to live with what she did?

 _Stop it._ I shake my head as I roll over in bed, trying not to think about the Games. About what she did. About what she might still have to _do_. It shouldn't matter, as long as she comes back alive. That should be what matters. That should be enough. If she comes back, then maybe everything will look a bit different. Maybe I'll just be glad to have her back.

Maybe. But I can't help thinking that the sister I loved – the sister who went into the arena – is already gone. The sister that our little brother Link and I loved would never have killed someone without a damn good reason. But that's exactly what she did. And I can't help wondering if anything will ever be enough to make up for that.

* * *

 **Lance Norman, 35  
** **Father of Bentley Norman**

It looks like Bentley's decided not to go back to Ada after all. Good idea. Of course, he has no way of knowing just how _much_ of a good idea it is. No way of knowing that she's already killed two of her allies, and would probably happily kill him, too, if he went back. The Gamemakers sent her that knife for a reason. They expect her to use it. All I can do now is hope she doesn't end up using it on _him_.

The note they sent her, after all, included "SE". Southeast, probably. And he's pretty much directly southeast of her. But the girl from Three – Dina – seems to be heading in that direction, as well. Maybe Ada will find her, instead.

That sounds awful – hoping that Dina will die instead of Bentley. What gives him any more right to live than her? Because _I_ want it? I'm sure the girl from Three has people who want her back, too. Just like Ada has people who want her back. And Apollo and Darrin – they had family. What makes me more important than any of their families? What makes Bentley more important than any of those other kids?

I take another drink as light slowly begins to creep over the arena again. The lack of sleep must be making me philosophical. Either that or the drinks. It's hard to tell sometimes. Bentley always kept me from drinking too much, always stopped me before I got to this point. If he doesn't come back…

I don't know what I'll do, and that's the truth. During the war, I kept going because I knew he was waiting for me at home. My son. That was enough to keep me going, enough to keep me alive. But now I'm the one waiting for him. Now I'm the one who doesn't know whether he'll come back. And I hate it. I just wish the Games were over – one way or the other. That way, either I'll have him back … or maybe I can go join him.

* * *

 **Albert Brookfield, 12  
** **Brother of Dina Brookfield**

I don't really know what I would have done if I had been there with her. Or been there instead of her. I'm glad she's still alive – don't get me wrong. But my big sister just left her ally, her district partner, to die without even trying to save him. Without putting up a fight. Without even thinking about it, really. She just ran.

And, yes, I'm glad she's alive. There are only ten tributes left, and she's one of them. And she hasn't killed anyone. I don't know if I should be proud of that or worried for her, really. Only two of the tributes who are left – her and the girl from Eight – haven't killed anyone. Maybe the Gamemakers or the audience will figure they're just waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right time to strike.

But is that what Dina's doing? I doubt it. Would she really be able to kill someone? Sure, the audience might say she ran because she didn't have a weapon, and that would be true. But the only reason the other two had weapons was because they took them from the boy from Eight. Because they killed him. Was that what Dina and Rick were planning to do when they followed the other two?

I don't know. Maybe I'll never know. Or maybe … maybe I don't _want_ to know. The thought that Dina might have been planning to kill someone is … frightening. I mean, I know it has to happen eventually. But I always figured another tribute would be the one to strike first. I could picture her killing to defend herself. It still makes my stomach turn, but I can picture it. But hunting down and killing someone else without being attacked…

But she didn't. That's not how it turned out. So maybe what she was planning to do doesn't really matter at all. After all, it's not like they really had a way to _kill_ the other tributes. Maybe they were just planning to steal some food. Either way, the other two are alive. Rick is dead, but Dina is still alive. Maybe that should be enough.

* * *

 **Margaret Mills, 39  
** **Mother of Mel Mills**

She's still alive. I keep holding onto that thought, because it's the only thing that keeps me from turning off the screen. My daughter is still alive, but she killed a boy. A boy who just wanted some of their food. A boy who just wanted to live.

A boy who had to die, anyway, if Mel was going to live. But that doesn't make it any easier to watch my little girl kill someone. Even though she did it to protect her friend. Even if there wasn't really any other choice. It's still hard. Maybe it always will be.

Because if she's going to come home, she'll have to kill again. Maybe more than once. And I'll have to find a way to live with that, just like she will. If she survives – if she _wins_ – then we can figure out what comes next. Then we can worry about the right and the wrong, the good and the bad. Right now, all that matters is whether or not she's coming home.

And, for the first time, it's starting to look like she has a real chance. There are only ten tributes left. Ten. And both she and Jethro are still alive. Jethro's hurt, but it doesn't seem too bad. And Mel's completely unharmed. She came out of the fight uninjured, which is good. In fact, aside from being hungry, most of the tributes who are left seem to be in pretty good shape physically.

But that can't last forever. It's only been two days, and fourteen of them are already dead. Another day or two, and most of them could be gone. Eventually, all but one will be dead. I just hope that one is my daughter.

* * *

 **Darrel Eister, 26  
** **Brother of Ivone Eister**

I just hope she didn't make a mistake by staying at the top of the hill. It's been a quiet night up there, and that's good … but it also means that Jayda and Ra killed a total of three tributes, while she's been sitting up there guarding their pile of stuff. Not that Ivone is likely to care – kill total doesn't matter, after all. It's all about who's left standing at the end of the Games. How many tributes they killed in order to get there doesn't matter one bit.

Except to the audience. Most of the tributes who are left – including Ivone – have a single kill to their name. Ra has two. Jayda has _three_. If they start to paint Ivone as the new weak link in their alliance, now that Isaac is gone…

Gone. He's not just gone. He's dead. Maybe I should feel sorry about that. He was her district partner, after all. But it's not as if I knew him. Not as if _she_ knew him at all before the reaping. He was just another tribute in the Games. Why should the fact that they happen to be from the same district matter at all?

I doubt that will matter to Ivone much, either. Jayda and Ra are taking their time getting back to the top of the hill – maybe worried about what she'll say about Isaac's death. But if I had to take a guess, they're probably worried for nothing. She didn't seem particularly close to Isaac. And she's smart enough to realize that he would have had to die, anyway. The fact that it was an ally who did it … maybe that doesn't matter at all.

Whatever the case, they're still a long way from the top of the hill. The girl from Eight, meanwhile, is making her way towards the top. I wonder if she knows. If she's figured out that most of the tributes who were up there have gone hunting. Maybe all the cannons were a giveaway. Or maybe she's just desperate. Just hungry enough to do something reckless. I just hope Ivone can handle her.

* * *

 **Bast Schintozo, 42  
** **Mother of Ra Schintozo**

I just hope he can handle Jayda when the time comes. The two of them seem to have an understanding for now. For the moment, they need each other. For the moment, they make a good team. But surely he knows better than to think it's anything more than that. In the end, Jayda is an opponent – nothing more. A tribute. And my son is going to be more than that. He's going to be a Victor.

Or, at least, I hope he will. I've tried so hard to be confident, but it's getting harder now that there are so few tributes left. He's lasted this long, and he's killed three of the other tributes. That should make me more confident, more certain that he's going to emerge victorious. But, instead, it's only made me more anxious. This is real now. There are only ten of them left, and there's no guarantee that he'll be the one to come out of this.

I glance over at Seth as the pair of us watch the screen. It's early in the morning – barely light even in the arena – but neither of us has been able to sleep very well. I doubt anyone has. Even Seth seems to be trying to hold himself together, trying to appear calm. Trying to remind himself that Ra's fate is already decided, that he's destined to come home.

I still believe that. I've always believed that. But watching the screen now, I can't help feeling so … so helpless. Seth and I have always been here with the rest of the family, ready to support him, to help him along his path. That's always been enough. But now there's nothing we can do to help him, and that feeling – a feeling that's almost _weakness_ – is worse than I could have imagined.

But I won't have to deal with it much longer. There are only ten tributes left. In a few days, Ra will be on his way home. Then he'll be back with us, and everything will be even better than it was before. We just have to be patient. We just have to have faith.

* * *

 **Aria Greggory, 13  
** **Sister of Jayda Greggory**

I'm trying to have faith. Trying to be confident that my sister's coming home. That's why she volunteered, after all. She was certain she could win. She knew she could win. I bet she still does. She's always been the confident one, the one who was certain of what she was doing. She knew that winning the Games was the best way – maybe the _only_ way – to … what? Restore our family's name? Convince the Capitol that we weren't rebels? Make up for what our mother did during the war?

If that was the plan, she's certainly well on her way. She's killed three tributes so far – more than anyone else in the arena. But that isn't the most important thing. What matters more – the _only_ thing that matters, really – is whether or not she makes it out alive. Last year, the girl from our district killed _four_ tributes. So did the girl from Seven. But they're both dead. The only thing that matters is who comes out of the arena alive.

I want to believe that it can be her. That it _will_ be her. She's certainly in a good position – better than most right now. Two of her allies are alive. She's unharmed. They have food, water, weapons, and a good position at the top of the hill. But I can't help wondering how long that will last, especially now that she killed Isaac.

She made the right choice, I think. What he was doing to the blind boy – taunting him instead of just killing him quickly – that wasn't right. But there's no guarantee that his district partner, Ivone, will see it that way. If she learns that Jayda killed Isaac…

Not that they have to tell her that, of course. They could certainly make up some other story. They could say that he was killed by one of the other tributes, or that he tried to attack Jayda first, or that he simply ran off. Any of those stories should be enough – enough to convince her that the alliance isn't falling apart yet. Unless, of course, it is…

* * *

 **Clyde Blair, 51  
** **Father of Lacey Blair**

Maybe it's a good thing Lacey's alliance fell apart early on. Well, maybe 'fell apart' isn't entirely accurate. It wasn't as if it was their fault that two of them died. Wasn't as if it was her fault she was left on her own without food, water, or weapons. She's been doing the best she can. And I bet she wishes she still had allies, but maybe it's a good thing no one's been around to stab her in the back. Between the girl from Five killing her district partner and the girl from Two killing the boy from Twelve, alliances seem a lot more fragile than they did last year.

Maybe that's only to be expected. Maybe they're starting to understand – _really_ understand – that only one of them can make it out of that arena alive. So maybe it's a good thing Lacey's already on her own. She won't have to deal with the possibility of having to kill an ally – because she doesn't have any left.

Of course, that also means she doesn't have any backup for whatever it is that she's planning. She's been slowly heading uphill for a while now, towards the top where Ivone is waiting. What's she planning to do? If she's hoping to sneak in and grab some food or maybe a weapon, this doesn't really seem like the best time for it. It's starting to get light again. Ivone will be able to see her…

Or maybe that's what she's counting on. Maybe she figures that whoever's at the top will be _expecting_ an attack in the dark, and less likely to be paying attention when it's light. Maybe she's counting on Ivone getting sleepy after being awake the entire night. Eventually, she'll have to get some rest – even with the others gone. Maybe that's what Lacey's waiting for.

Or maybe she's just desperate. Maybe she's so hungry and tired that _anything_ that might get her some food seems like a good idea. Maybe she doesn't have a plan at all. I hope she does. I hope she knows what she's doing. But after two days without anything to eat … well, I know I wouldn't exactly be thinking clearly. But whatever she's about to do – and whether or not she's planned any of it out – I just hope she survives it. That would be good enough for me.


	28. Know

**Know**

" _Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for."_

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I don't really know what's going to happen next. I'm almost at the top of the hill. The sun is starting to rise on the other side. I'm not quite close enough to see anything yet – not quite close enough to tell whether anyone else is there. But I've come too far to turn back now. I spent the whole night slowly making my way uphill. The audience will be expecting me to do something. If I don't – if I chicken out now – there's no telling what the Gamemakers will do.

Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe there's no one there. Slowly, I creep a little closer. Maybe…

 _Shit._

There's someone there. A girl. She's armed. I duck as low as I can. She's still facing the other way. Maybe I can still get away. Maybe I can even sneak in and grab something first. There's only one of her – or, at least, she's the only one I can see. There's only one of me, too, of course, but I have the advantage. I know she's here. She hasn't seen me – at least not yet.

Not yet.

Suddenly, she turns. Maybe my breathing was louder than I thought. Maybe she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she just got lucky. Either way, I've been spotted. She takes a step closer. "I can see you." She's holding her dagger in front of her. Waiting. Maybe waiting to see if I have a weapon. Trying to figure out whether I came here to steal or to fight. Or maybe wondering whether or not I'm alone.

I can use that. Slowly, I stand up. She's still a good distance away. "I'd run if I were you," she reasons.

Maybe she would. Maybe I _should_. But I can't. If I run away now, I'll have lost my only chance at getting food. Getting supplies. Getting my hands on a weapon. I can't let that chance go now. But I also don't want to fight her. By the time I got close enough to grab a weapon…

Maybe I won't have to fight her. I take a step closer. "Would you really? You'd just run away?"

The girl shrugs. "Whatever you came to steal – is it worth dying for?"

I swallow hard. "What if I didn't come to steal from you? What if I came to trade?"

The girl raises an eyebrow. "What are you offering?"

"Information – about your allies." A gamble, maybe, but a pretty safe one. She had four allies to start with. Her district partner, the girl from Ten, the boy from One, and the girl from Two. Jim killed the girl from Ten, but chances are good that at least one or two of the others are still alive somewhere in the arena.

The girl shrugs. "They'll be back soon."

 _They._ More than one. Okay. That's good. I nod, trying my best to look confident. "I know. They're headed this way, and that's not going to be good."

"For you."

"Or for _you_. Those last three cannons that went off? They just killed a group of _three_ tributes. I only saw it from a distance, but they're headed this way – fast. And from the look of things, they've decided they don't need much help finishing off whoever's left. If they left you up here because they thought you wouldn't be much use in a hunt…"

The girl shakes her head. "I volunteered."

I shrug, putting on what I hope is a convincing smile. "If you say so."

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

I know a bluff when I see one, and I can see what she's trying to do. She didn't come up here to offer me information. She isn't even really offering a trade. If she was, she wouldn't have just come out and told me everything. She's trying to make me doubt my allies. She probably hasn't even seen them. She's probably making up this whole pile of shit.

Unfortunately, just because she's lying doesn't necessarily mean that she's wrong. If she's right about the most recent cannons – if Ra, Jayda, and Isaac _did_ manage to take on three other tributes and win – then they may very well have decided that they don't need me anymore. And even if they haven't been quite that lucky, they may still have reached the same conclusion. There are only ten tributes left. Four of us, if the other three are still alive. Maybe it _is_ time to split.

"So what are you suggesting?" I ask, taking a step closer, my dagger still between the girl and the pile of weapons she's eyeing. "You want me to split so you can take what you need and run off? We both get away free and clear, and neither of us is around when my allies come back?"

The girl stands her ground. "We _could_. Or…"

Or. She lets that hang in the air for a moment – exactly the way I would have. She's good. But I'm better. I know exactly what she was suggesting. "Or we could both stay," I finish. "Take them by surprise. Kill them while we have the chance."

"We may not _get_ a better chance," she points out, and I can't help but notice that we both used the word _we_. Why? Why is it suddenly her and me against my allies?

And why does it feel right?

Maybe it's because of the way she responded to my threat. She didn't try to fight a battle she wouldn't win. So she's fighting with words, instead. My sort of weapon. But words aren't going to be much use against Ra, Jayda, and Isaac. "Three of them, two of us," I point out, well aware that I'm revealing how many of my allies are still alive.

Or, at least, how many of them _might_ still be alive. I have no way of knowing how many of them are left. And, unless she's telling the truth about having seen them fight, neither does she. "But we'll have the element of surprise," she reasons. "Let me have a weapon. Give me some food so that I'll be in good condition to fight. When they come, we'll take them on together. What do you have to lose?"

Quite a bit. Even if they _weren't_ planning on coming back to kill me, I'll have lost my allies. Even if she's right, staying and fighting instead of running could mean that I lose my _life_. But she's right that we might not get a better chance. Right now, we have surprise on our side. They won't be expecting me to be ready for a fight. I take another step forwards, closer and closer to the girl. She's within reach of my dagger now. If I wanted to…

But I don't. Not yet. "What's your name?" I ask.

The girl relaxes a little, maybe figuring that I wouldn't be asking for her name if I planned on killing her. "Lacey."

"Ivone. It sounds like we have a deal."

Lacey breaths a sigh of relief. "Deal."

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

I know I'm going to have to deal with her sooner or later. Jayda and I keep trading glances as we head back up the hill, turning this way and that as the sun starts to rise off to our right. We're both glancing around, looking for someone else we might be able to target. Neither of us is eager to get back to Ivone. Because once we reach the top of the hill, then we have to make a choice.

If Ivone is still alive, we have to tell her something about what happened to Isaac. I know that's what Jayda's probably concerned about. She's the one who killed him, after all. Not that I really tried to stop her. Not that I _wanted_ to. Isaac had to die. So does Jayda, eventually. And so does Ivone.

And that's the real choice. When we get back to the top of the hill, do we explain ourselves to her … or do we simply eliminate her, as well? Do we kill her? And if we do, then…

Then what? Then it would be just the two of us. Would we go out hunting again? Eventually, we need to rest. My legs are already getting tired from walking all night. Not that I'm stupid enough to say so – not in front of the cameras and certainly not in front of Jayda, although she's probably just as tired as I am. How can either of us expect to get a good night's rest now? By the time we get back to the top of the hill…

If Ivone is still alive – and if we let her live – there are only ten tributes in the arena. If one of us keeps watch, there's no guarantee that the others would wake up again. It would be a convenient way to finish off one's opponents. If Jayda goes to sleep, would I be able to resist taking her out while I have the chance? Is that something I would even _want_ to resist? It doesn't seem fair, really, the thought of killing an opponent – an _ally_ – in their sleep.

I turn my spear over in my hands, the tip still stained with blood despite my best efforts to wipe it off. I shouldn't _care_ about what's fair. I'm supposed to be above such things. Jayda and Ivone have to die if I'm going to make it out of here alive. _How_ they die – and whether or not I'm the one to do the deed – shouldn't really matter.

And yet … it does. It _does_ matter. Jayda stood by me. Fought with me. She deserves better than to be killed in her sleep. And Ivone … If she's still alive, that meant she stood guard over our supplies the whole night – successfully. That's no minor feat, especially if someone _did_ try to steal something, or try to kill her. As much as I might try to ignore it, these two … they've earned my _respect._

 _They have to die._ For the first time, my spirit's voice doesn't fill me with comfort or confidence. It's the truth, of course – they _do_ have to die. But that doesn't mean I have to _like_ it. And it doesn't mean I have to be the one to do it.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I know I have to be the one to do it. I'm certain of that now. The Capitol sent me this knife for a reason. They told me to go southeast. That's the way Bentley went. They want him to die – and they want _me_ to be the one to do it. There's no other explanation for their gifts – the gifts that are going to keep me alive.

I can't help a chuckle. I already killed two allies. Two _friends_. Maybe they figure a third one is no big deal. Maybe it isn't. Who knows? Maybe he's even asleep. Maybe if I get started now, I can find him while he's still resting.

Slowly, I stand up. The bread last night was enough to fill my stomach, and the knife they sent feels good in my hands. I'm ready. Maybe if I kill Bentley, they'll send me some more food. And if I kill _enough_ tributes, they won't have to send me anything. I'll get to go home.

Home. The thought hits me harder than it should. Because District Five isn't just _my_ home. District Five was Apollo's home. He was hoping to go home, too. And I killed him, anyway. The fact that we were district partners – it didn't mean a thing in that moment. Maybe it still doesn't. He's dead, after all. He's not going home. So why does it matter _where_ he's not going back to?

I shake my head and turn towards the sun, which is beginning to rise in the distance, then a little bit to the right. Southeast. That's the way they want me to go. The way I _have_ to go, if I want to end this.

If I want to end this. And I do. More than anything, I just want it to be over. But there are still ten tributes left. If I want the Games to be over, I have a _lot_ of work to do. So I'd better get to it.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

I know I have to start moving again. I stretch my arms, trying to convince myself to move. But I finally got comfortable, and I even managed to get a little sleep. I'm so tired…

But I can't sleep. Not for long. Not now. I'm already weak from hunger. If I go much longer without finding food or water, I won't have to worry about the other tributes killing me. I have to find _something_ – and fast.

So I force myself to my feet and start off again. Slowly. One step, and then another. I wish I felt like I was making progress. But I have no way of knowing if I'm even going in the right direction. No way to know whether there's any food this way. Whether there's any food in the arena. I ate a few tree leaves a while back, and they don't seem to have done me any harm, but I can't live on tree leaves – especially without water.

Water.

I just want some water.

Then I hear it – in the distance. It sounds like water. A quiet sort of trickling, like a small stream. Maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe I'm just hearing what I want to hear. But right now, it's all I have to go on. I head in the direction of the sound, brushing tree branches out of the way as I go.

It's getting louder. It _is_ water. Another few steps, and I can see it – a small stream flowing down the side of the hill. But I can also see the boy. A boy standing between me and the water. He's smaller than me, but I can also see a knife. He's armed. I'm not. "Please," I gasp, tired from walking so fast. "Please, I just want some water."

The boy takes a step back. "Okay."

What?

No. No, that can't be right. He's not just going to _let_ me take a drink – is he? No, I can see the look in his eyes. He's waiting for me to take the offer. To kneel down by the stream. He's waiting until I'm completely defenseless. Maybe he doesn't realize I'm unarmed. Maybe he doesn't want to take the chance that I'd be able to overpower him anyway.

Maybe. Or maybe he's being sincere. He lowers his weapon when he sees me hesitate. "I'm Bentley. What's your name?"

"Dina," I answer without thinking twice. It's almost a reflex – being friendly. Even here. Even now. Even after losing Lexi, even after losing Rick, there's a part of me that still wants to be friendly and polite to this boy. This boy I just met. This boy who could kill me in a moment.

"Maybe we could help each other," Bentley suggests quietly, taking another step back. Letting me take another step towards the water.

"What happened to your allies?" I ask, glancing around. He had some, I know. I don't remember who, exactly, or how many, but he wasn't alone. Are they waiting around here somewhere, ready to pounce when I finally kneel down to take a drink?

He shakes his head. "They're … they're gone. Yours?"

"Gone," I echo. "I guess we're both alone." And there's a part of me that wants to take him up on the offer. That wants to have company. An ally. A friend. But look how that's worked out so far. Lexi is dead. Rick is dead. _I_ could be dead, if I make the wrong move now. If I trust him now, he could kill me. I can't afford to keep teaming up with everyone I run into. Not if I want to live.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I know the two of us can't team up for long. Not if I want to live. There are only ten tributes left, and she's one of them. One of the nine people who has to die if I want to make it home. And it's not as if joining up with her is going to help me much. She doesn't have any weapons, or she would have drawn them by now. From the look of her, she hasn't had anything to eat or drink since the start of the Games. She's not going to be able to help me.

But that's exactly why it feels so wrong to even think about killing her. She's defenseless. Helpless. She probably wouldn't put up much of a fight. The boy from Nine didn't, either, but he was already injured. He would have died, anyway. Dina won't – at least not right away. She's not hurt. She's not dying. She just needs some water. That's all. All I have to do is let her have it, and she'll be fine.

Well, fine except for the fact that we're trapped in a fight to the death together. Eventually, one of us is going to have to die. If I don't kill her now, someone will have to later. If I don't kill her now, _she_ might kill _me_ later. Is that a chance I really want to take?

She takes a step closer to the water. Watching me. Maybe waiting to see if I'm going to attack her. And the truth is … even I don't know if I will. If I want to. If I really have it in me to strike at someone who I've just offered to help. "You really want to work together?" There's doubt in her voice, but she takes another step towards the water, anyway. She doesn't really have a choice…

And neither do I. I put on my best smile and nod. "Why not? Two of us have a better chance together than one, right?"

Except we both know that isn't true. Having the others with me didn't help in the marsh. It hasn't helped me find food and water. I only found this stream once I struck out on my own. For all I know, the others are all still sitting around, waiting for me to come back. Having people to work with only fools you into thinking you can count on them to help. Count on them to keep you alive. But you can't.

 _I_ can't.

Dina kneels down, still watching me out of the corner of her eye as she cups her hands and dips them in the stream, then raises them to her lips and drinks. Once. Twice. Again and again and again. She finally looks away from me, drinking her fill. Maybe convinced that if I was going to attack her, I would have done it by now.

* * *

 **Dina Brookfield, 15  
** **District Three**

I know he could still attack me, but why wouldn't he have done it by now? Why let me drink first? Maybe he's trying to lull me into thinking that I'm safe. Maybe he just doesn't think it's fair to strike while my back is turned. Maybe he's trying to play fair.

Or maybe … maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he really _does_ want to work together. Maybe I can trust him. Maybe…

I see the knife coming down just in time to dodge. _Shit_. I roll out of the way as his knife strikes air. He plunges forward towards the stream, barely catching himself in time to keep from slipping on the rocks. "So much for working together," I snap, stumbling backwards away from the stream. The words come out harsher than I meant them to. This isn't really his fault. Maybe it isn't anyone's fault. He just wants to live.

But so do I.

I duck beneath the next blow, then step back away from the next. I could just run. I might be able to outrun him. But then what? This is the only water I've seen in the arena. He knows I'll have to come back here eventually. And I've been running for so long…

It feels like I've been running since the start of the Games. I ran at the start, when Lexi was killed. I ran when Rick was killed. I've been running from everything. From every _one_.

Maybe it's time to stop running.

The next time he swings, I make a grab at the boy's arm. Bentley's arm. He has a name. He probably has a family. And here I am, fighting him anyway. Trying to kill him anyway.

He grips the knife tightly as I pull him to the ground, trying to wrench it from his grasp. He kicks my knee while I land a punch to his jaw. Still, he holds onto his weapon, and I grip his wrist as tightly as I can with my right hand, trying to keep him from striking. He's a bit smaller than me, but I'm weak after days without food. The water helped refresh me a little, but will it really be enough?

I grit my teeth as the two of us tumble across the ground. It _will_ be enough. It has to be. I roll a little more, positioning myself on top of the boy, then slam his wrist against the ground. He cries out as the knife tumbles from his grasp. Without thinking, I snatch it up and plunge it down towards his chest. But, at the last second, he rolls to the side, and I only manage to strike his arm. Blood pours from the cut along his forearm, and he cries out in pain. I stagger back, startled. I didn't mean to—

What? Hurt him? I meant to _kill_ him. It's only after I've taken a step back that I realize I let go of the knife. It's lying beside him on the ground, coated in blood. But not for long. He snatches it up again and lunges towards my legs, knocking me off balance. I tumble to the ground as the blade slices across the back of my left leg.

Pain. Worse than the hunger pains in my stomach. Worse than the thirst I've been dealing with for the last two days. This pain is sharp and sudden and deep, across the back of my knee. I try to stand, but I can't move my leg. The boy stabs downward, and I barely manage to dodge in time. His knife buries itself in the ground, still coated in blood as he pulls it out again.

He scrambles to his feet. I can't. The blood is still gushing from the wound in my leg – deeper than the cut on his arm. He steps back. Waiting. Maybe he figures that's all he has to do – wait. Wait until I bleed out. Maybe he's right.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I know I should keep my distance. Wait and see what happens. Maybe she'll bleed to death on her own. Maybe I've done all I need to. I certainly don't want to take the risk of going too close to her again. She's injured, but that doesn't change the fact that she just tried to kill me.

 _Only because you tried to kill her first._ I shake the thought from my head. That doesn't matter right now. Right now, the only thing that matters is staying alive. I take another step back. "What's the matter?" the girl asks. "Too scared to just finish it?"

I look away. Does that mean she _wants_ me to? Maybe. Maybe a quick death at my hands seems like a better option than slowly bleeding to death in the woods. Or maybe she's trying to goad me into coming closer so she can try to steal my knife again. That's what I would do if I were in her place. At least, I think it is. I certainly wouldn't want to die. I'd want to fight, to live, as long as I could. I have to assume that's what any other tribute will do.

So I take another step back towards the stream. But this time, the girl crawls towards me, pulling herself forward with her arms, dragging her injured leg behind her. "Coward," she mutters. "Come back here and fight."

Maybe I _am_ a coward. Maybe that's what it's going to take to survive. I take another step backwards, away from the girl. Then another. She's on her hands and knees now, scrambling towards me as I take another step back. Suddenly, my foot slips on one of the rocks. I tumble backwards, my arms flailing, trying to catch myself. She scrambles forward, lunging for my right hand. Trying to grab my knife.

I manage to hold onto the knife, but my shoulder slams into the rocks as I land, and the girl is quickly on top of me. One punch lands on my face. Then, suddenly, her hands are around my neck. I stab blindly at her arms, and she screams. But she doesn't let go. Blood pours down from her arms – down onto my chest, my neck, my face – as I stab again and again. It's warm and sticky. I stab again, and her grip finally begins to weaken. Her body slumps over on top of mine, and her cannon sounds.

It's a moment before I can muster the strength to heave her body off of me. I'm alive. I'm a bit bruised, there's a cut on my arm, and I'm covered in Dina's blood. But I'm alive. For now, that's all that matters.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I know I can't stay here forever. I finally managed to settle down and get some sleep, but a cannon woke me a few moments ago. Another cannon. Fifteen cannons. Fifteen tributes dead. Only nine of us left.

Maybe it's time to make my move. I just wish I knew what that move should be. I'm armed, but searching for other tributes in the forest seems like a rather silly strategy. The only tributes I've seen or heard since I killed the girl from Seven were the two I heard laughing yesterday. Other than that, it's been quiet. Too quiet, maybe. Nine tributes left, and I've only killed one.

Only. As if that makes it any better. That's the same sort of logic the Capitol used to justify the Games. _Only_ twenty-three children were going to die. Surely that was better than what would happen if we lapsed into another full-scale rebellion. It didn't seem like such a bad idea – until I realized I could be one of those twenty-three. I still could. There are still nine of us left. Only one of us is going home. And if I want it to be me, I have to make a move.

Okay. Okay, just think. When we were training, I got pretty good at making traps. Of course, then I had plenty of supplies to make traps _out_ of. Rope, mostly. I don't have any rope. I just have an axe and the food I took from the top of the hill.

But maybe I don't need supplies to make a good trap. Maybe I just need to think. Maybe I already have everything I need.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I know we have pretty much everything we could need. We have food and water back at the top of the hill – and still have some in our packs, even. Both Ra and I are armed. But I can't help the feeling that something is about to go wrong. That things are a little too perfect. That maybe … well, maybe it's time for this to end.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But every cannon brings us closer to the moment when either we'll have to split … or we'll have to kill each other. And if I'm being honest, I don't want it to come to that. I don't want to have to kill him.

I probably _could_ , mind you. Physically, I'm in better shape. I have been since the start of the Games. I've been training for this. He hasn't. That should give me an edge. Mentally, I'm just as prepared as he is – maybe more. I have three kills so far, while he only has two. That should give me even more of an edge.

But now that it comes down to it, I don't think it's about having an edge. It's not a matter of whether I'm physically capable of killing him. It's a matter of whether I _want_ to. And, to be perfectly honest … I don't.

Not that I want him to win. Not that I don't realize that he _has_ to die, eventually, if I want to go home. But _I_ don't want to be the one to do it. Just like I didn't want to be the one to kill Julian. Maybe there isn't a difference – not really. It certainly didn't stop me from killing Isaac. But Isaac was … I don't know. That was different.

Or maybe _this_ is different.

 _Stop it._ We're not there yet. There are still nine tributes left. Still seven tributes who have to die before it would come down to Ra and me. It probably won't happen. Hell, I _hope_ it doesn't happen. But if it does … I just hope I can do what has to be done.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

We both know what has to happen eventually. Every cannon is bringing us closer to the moment when we can't work together anymore. When we'll either have to split up or end up facing each other in a fight. We both know it, but neither of us wants to say it. I certainly don't want to. To be honest, our alliance has probably benefited me more than her. If she hadn't been there to save my life yesterday…

Then again, the only reason she _could_ – the only reason either of us had a weapon in the first place – was because I killed the boy from Eight the first day. So I suppose we've each had a hand in keeping the other alive. Still, if we were to split up now, I would be in a worse position than her. My head still starts throbbing every time I move too quickly. It's getting better, but it'll take time before it's fully healed.

Time I might not have. Time neither of us can really be certain of. We could be attacked at any moment. There are only nine tributes left in the arena. Only nine. It's already the third day. I shake my head as Mel and I share some more crackers and water. "Who do you suppose is left?"

Mel shrugs. "No way to know, really. Maybe the girl from Three – the one who ran away from us. But there have been … what? Six cannons since then?"

"Seven, if you count the boy from Three," I agree. "Maybe she's still alive. That'd be good for us, really."

Mel raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Didn't seem like she would put up a fight." It sounds horrible, but it's true. The weaker and more afraid the other tributes are, the better things are for us. We're still at a disadvantage, the two of us. We're still two of the younger tributes in the arena, regardless of who's left. But if the other tributes are scared enough to run from us…

Then again, how many tributes like that could make it this far? Fifteen tributes are dead, and Mel and I have only killed two between us. Someone is out there killing other tributes – someone we certainly don't want to face in a fight. But someone who will eventually have to die if we want to go home.

No. Not we. I. _I_ want to go home. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Mel can't go home with me. Mel can't live – not forever. Not if _I_ want to go home.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I know he can't live if I want to go home. Not much longer, certainly. It's already the third day of the Games. There are only nine of us left. Eventually, Jethro and I will either have to split up, or…

No. No, I don't even want to think about the other option. We'll have to find a way to part peacefully before that. It shouldn't be too difficult. We have a pair of knives between the two of us – we could each take one. We have enough food to share. And the backpack … well, I suppose he can have that. He's the reason we have it, after all.

Of course, he's also the reason we have the food – and the knives. But _I'm_ the reason he's still around to use them. He owes me. If – no, _when_ – we end up splitting up, I doubt he'll have a problem letting me take some of the supplies. But if he does…

No. No, it won't be a problem. He'll be fine with it, because _I'd_ be fine with it. Funny. If you'd told me a day or two ago that I'd be assuming Jethro would be thinking the same way I am, I might have laughed. But, really, he's not the one who's changed. He's not the one who's thinking like me. _I'm_ the one who's thinking like him. Maybe that should scare me, but it's kept me alive so far. It's kept _both_ of us alive.

But it can't keep both of us alive forever. Jethro and I share a look as we eat a few more crackers. We both know what's coming eventually. We're both hoping that maybe if we don't say anything, we can put off that moment a little longer. Stay together a little longer. But we both know that it's only a matter of time.

* * *

 **Leopold Royale  
** **District Three Escort**

I knew it was only a matter of time. Neither of them was ever going to make it out of the arena alive. They were both too soft. Neither of them was really willing to do what had to be done. Dina made it farther than I thought she would, to be honest, but … well, dead is dead. She's just as dead as Rick is. Both of them are just as dead as last year's tributes – and with so little to show for it. Not a single kill between the four tributes I've had so far.

Not that I'm really surprised by that. District Three has always been soft. Even the ones who took our side during the rebellion – the ones who helped modify mutts or create poisons to aid the Capitol's cause – did so not out of a sense of patriotism, but out of fear. Fear of what we would do to their families and friends if they refused to comply. The ones who joined the rebels were just as soft – not soldiers who were willing to do what had to be done, but blind idealists who just wanted everyone to get along.

At least Dina realized, at the end, that she couldn't actually team up with Bentley. At least she _tried_ to kill him. She was trying to play the Game. He just happened to be better at it. And he had a weapon, I suppose, but still…

It's not all about weapons. Jethro killed in order to _get_ weapons in the first place. Jae risked going back to the top of the hill in order to get weapons. Dina and Rick, on the other hand, wanted to play it safe and hide as long as they could. But that doesn't work. _Can't_ work. The Games aren't about hiding. Even Lacey, who's been successfully hiding until now, finally figured out that she had to make a move.

And an interesting move, at that. Teaming up with Ivone was … well, not what I was expecting when she went back to the top of the hill. I was expecting a fight. And there are probably some in the audience who will be disappointed that they didn't get one. But a fight is still coming once Jayda and Ra find their way back to the top of the hill.

They seem to be content to take their time, though. The sun is rising higher, but they're still zigzagging their way back up the hill. At first, they at least pretended that they were looking for other tributes. But now? Now it's obvious even to the most oblivious viewers that they're stalling. Maybe they've figured out that the two of them are better off without Ivone, and are trying to delay the inevitable. Maybe they think she's already dead. Maybe they're _hoping_ she's already dead, so they don't have to deal with her.

But she's still alive. Nine tributes are left. Nine. And both of mine are gone. Dina made it farther than any of the others from Three. Rick placed sixteenth, as did Carina last year. Lincoln placed fifteenth. Dina made it to tenth … but she's still just as dead. None of them will be coming home.

I wander over to the corner where Athena and Lucius are seated together at a table, silently sipping their drinks. Both of their tributes are dead, as well. Three districts eliminated – Ten, Eleven, and now Three. Not a single kill between the six of them, and only one credited to the pair from Ten last year. I shrug as I order another drink. Maybe some districts are just better at this than others. Maybe some districts – _our_ districts – are just doomed to fail.

* * *

 **Just a quick reminder to vote in the final four poll.**


	29. Ready

**Ready**

" _Ready for the moment of adrenaline when you finally face your opponent."_

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

We'll be ready when they get here. I smile as I finish another bottle of water. For the moment, at least, my gamble seems to have paid off. Ivone is still watching me suspiciously, but she let me have some food and water from their pile of supplies, and I chose a dagger and a second, scythe-like blade from the weapons available. When her allies arrive, we'll be ready to fight them off.

That's the plan, at least. It certainly seemed like a better plan than taking on Ivone without a weapon. Now, whatever happens, at least I have a full stomach, and I'm well-armed. If I get nothing else out of the deal, this is good enough for me. And if we can't handle her allies in a fight, we can always run. No harm done.

I'm not kidding myself, though. If her allies come and manage to overpower us, I might not have the chance to run away. And there's always a chance that Ivone is lying, that she doesn't plan to turn on her allies. If they all try to kill me, I don't stand a chance, and we both know it.

"So what happened to your allies?" Ivone asks, taking a bite of an apple as the two of us watch the edge of the hill.

I raise an eyebrow. Is she really trying to make small talk? Maybe after more than two days in the arena, she's as desperate for company, for a normal conversation, as I am. "Mantle died at the start," I answer. "One of your allies, actually."

Ivone flushes. Maybe she forgot. The start of the Games was so chaotic, maybe she didn't even see that it was Jayda who had thrown the knife. "And the other boy?" she asks. "The one who killed Hannah?"

Oh.

Jim. He killed Hannah. Just like Jayda killed Mantle. That seems like so long ago. It's been so long since Jim was even _alive_. "He fell down the cliff over there." I point to the steep ledge we climbed down … two days ago? It seems like ages. "Someone cut his throat, but I didn't make it down in time to see who."

"You've been on your own since then?"

"Yeah."

Ivone nods approvingly. "Not bad."

"I guess not," I agree. "All things considered." I'm alive. I finally have food and water – and a new ally. Things haven't worked out so bad this far. "And you?"

Ivone shrugs. "Ra, Jayda, and Isaac left yesterday. I was supposed to be guarding the supplies – making sure no one snuck in to steal anything. As far as I know, they're still alive. You're the first person I've seen since then."

"You're the first person I've seen since Jim died." I can't help a chuckle. "I bet they didn't count on you teaming up with someone who snuck in to steal some food, huh?"

"I guess not." Ivone smiles a little. "Won't they be surprised."

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Maybe it should surprise me – just how easy it is to talk to Lacey. How natural it seems. She was never really on my radar, aside from the fact that I knew she was in one of the larger alliances. One of the alliances that seemed more dangerous. And yet here we are, talking like two normal teenage girls. And it feels … it feels _good_. To be honest, she reminds me a bit of Ramsey. The way she managed to convince me to ally with her despite having nothing but the clothes on her back.

Maybe it was a stupid move. And maybe it'll come back to bite me. But I wouldn't trade it for anything. Because these last few moments have been good. Not just tolerable, not just getting by, but really, truly _good_. This almost feels normal, almost like we aren't trapped in an arena with seven other tributes who want to kill us. Almost like we aren't fighting for our lives.

And maybe it's _because_ we realize that, at best, we only have … what? A few hours together? When the others find their way back up here … that's it. One way or another, everything is going to change, and I doubt that Lacey and I will stay together long after that. Between the two of us and the three of them, that's over half the tributes left in the arena. Something very important will be decided here, and it'll be decided very soon.

And the ironic thing is, that eliminates the need for pleasantries. I don't have to worry about what I'm telling her, don't have to be concerned that I'm giving away too much. At this point, there's nothing _to_ give away. I don't _have_ any secrets worth spilling. We're not plotting. The plotting is long done. We have a plan. At the first sign of the others, we'll put it into action. But not yet. For now, we're just waiting.

'Just waiting' has never felt so good.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I didn't expect it to feel this good. I have a plan. A plan that I think might actually work. Not that it's terribly complicated, but after two days of mostly hiding and staying on the move, it feels surprisingly _good_ to actually be doing something … productive. Something that might get me a little closer to home.

Or it might get me killed. There's always that possibility, of course. I shake my head as I chop some more branches off the nearest tree. Not enough to cause it to fall – or, at least, I hope not. I'm no tree expert, but I'm trying not to chop into the trunk itself. I don't need to knock it over. I just need wood. As much wood as I can get.

The plan is to light a fire. A forest fire. The boy from Nine last year lit one accidentally, but I'm doing it on purpose. The plan is to light the fire and then rush straight for the marsh before it gets too bad. The fire won't burn the marsh. Or, at least, I don't think it will. The marsh water, at least, won't burn. If I go in far enough…

Of course, if I go in too far, I could drown. Not far enough, and I could burn. Which is why I've been testing the marsh for good spots for about an hour or so. I think I've found a good place, and cleared away some of the plants that might catch fire. But my _hope_ is that the fire won't even go in that direction. The wind is blowing the other way, so _hopefully_ the fire will stay in the forest. _Hopefully_ the fire will burn through the trees and drive the other tributes up the hill.

That's the plan, at least. Herd them together, and then … well, hope they kill each other off. Or injure each other enough that, by the time I get there, I'll be able to finish them off. Maybe it's not a perfect plan, but it seemed like a better idea than wandering through the forest looking for tributes one by one – especially when most of them would be in larger groups than … mine. Me. I can't take on an entire arena by myself. But I also can't sit here and do nothing – not if I want to win.

I swing my axe again. More wood. I need the initial fire to be as big as it can get if I want to catch the woods on fire. Because I want it to start spreading _before_ someone can follow the smoke right to me. If it's too small to cause damage but big enough to be noticed, I'm done for. I need to get this just right if it's going to have any chance of succeeding. And for that, I need time.

Fortunately, I seem to have it – time, that is. There are still nine of us left. I haven't seen anyone else in the area. And the more the others kill each other before I can light the fire, the better. I want to be as ready as I can be before I set my plan in motion.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I wish I could say I'm ready to see Bentley again. Ready to face him, to kill him if necessary. If necessary. As if there's really a choice. The Gamemakers sent me a weapon. I don't have an excuse not to use it. There are only nine of us left. Even if Bentley had stayed with me, even if he and Apollo were still alive, eventually they would have to die. We would probably have split up by now, anyway.

Hell, we _did_ split up. Bentley left _me_ – not the other way around. He's the one who broke off the alliance. If I find him – no, _when_ I find him – he can't possibly expect me to just take him back as an ally. Not when he left me alone to take care of Phoebe and Apollo. He's had plenty of time to come back. It's obvious by now that he never meant to.

Unless … unless he's injured somewhere, and _that's_ why he didn't come back. Maybe he's hurt somewhere, like Phoebe, and death will actually be a relief. There's a part of me that hopes so. That hopes I won't have to fight him. He had a knife, too, after all. Is that really a fight I would win? Sure, he's younger than me, but that's never a guarantee – especially if he happens to catch me off-guard.

I glance around the trees, looking for any sign of movement. He could be anywhere. The note that came with the parachute just said "SE." Southeast, I assumed, but southeast _where_? How am I supposed to find him?

But I keep moving, because … well, what other choice do I have? Go back? To what? There wasn't anything particularly special about where we were before. Even if I don't manage to find Bentley, I'm no worse off here than I was back there. And maybe if I _look_ like I'm doing something productive, the Gamemakers won't bother sending a giant sea serpent after me.

Even if I don't find Bentley, maybe I can find some water. The bread last night was enough to keep me going for a while, but water would be good. Water that's _not_ a marsh, that is. I'm certainly not going back there. Back where Darrin died. Back where…

Back where Darrin told me to protect the others. What would he think, if he could see what I'm about to do? What would he do, if he knew that I had killed Phoebe and Apollo, that I'm hunting Bentley down because … what? Because the Gamemakers want me to?

Or because _I_ want to?

Is there even a difference?

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I don't want to do this. Maybe neither of us does. But by now, it's clear that we have to. The sun is beginning to set behind us as Ra and I head back towards the top of the hill. Back towards Ivone, and whatever else might be waiting for us there.

I glance over at Ra as we near the top. He shrugs, as if nothing at all is wrong. As if we haven't spent nearly three days in an arena fighting other kids. _Killing_ other kids. As if this is all okay. After three days, he still seems strangely at ease with the whole thing.

Of course, I'm not really in much of a position to judge. Of the two of us, _I'm_ the one who volunteered for this. I'm the one who wanted to be here.

Well, not exactly. I didn't want to kill – not really. I just wanted the results. The Capitol's favor. And if killing other kids happened to be the only way to get it, I was ready to do it. Still am, I suppose. After all, I'm still here.

But now I don't have much of a choice anymore. It isn't about what might happen after the Games, or what the Capitol thinks of me and my family. No, it's much simpler than that now. It's just about survival. Only one of us is going to survive, and if I want it to be me, I have to be ready to kill.

I have to be ready to kill _anyone._

A twig snaps as we near the top of the hill. I quickly whirl around, looking for anyone who might appear from behind a tree, before realizing _I_ was the one who stepped on a twig. Damn, I'm getting jumpy. Oh, well. Maybe it's better if Ivone knows that we're coming. That way, at least, she won't see movement and immediately think we're intruders.

If Ivone's still alive.

* * *

 **Ivone Eister, 17  
** **District Twelve**

So they _are_ still alive. Lacey was telling the truth – or enough of it, at least. We ready our weapons as another twig snaps. I don't know whether to hope I'm right or not – whether to hope that the noises are being made by my allies or not.

My _former_ allies, I suppose. I don't really deserve to call them allies anymore. Not considering what I'm about to do. What _we're_ about to do.

"Ready?" Lacey whispers, and I nod. That's all the signal she needs. She swings her dagger at me. I catch the blade on my own, then swing. She blocks, then swings. I block. It's almost like a dance. We practiced a little – trying to make it look like we're trying to kill each other. But I still don't know if it does, or if it just looks like … well, practice.

The idea is to lure the others in. Make it look like she's winning. Like she's about to kill me. Then, when they charge in to save me, we both turn on them. That's the idea. That's the plan.

The two of us circle, and I can see them. Ra. Jayda. Making their way up the side of the hill, drawn in by the clashing of our weapons. Jayda takes a few steps towards us, but Ra grabs her arm. _Shit_. Can he tell we're pretending? Or is he just waiting to see what will happen, to see whether I can fight an intruder off on my own?

What will he do if he thinks I can't? Will he and Jayda step in? That's what we were counting on, but what if they don't? What if they'd just let Lacey kill me?

Of course, Lacey _won't_ kill me.

Will she?

Her next blow strikes my dagger harder. Maybe I'm imagining things, but she seems to be moving faster. Is she just sticking with the plan? Trying to make it look like she's overpowering me? Or was _this_ her plan all along? Take me out and then run? But then why wait until Ra and Jayda came back?

And where the hell is Isaac?

Okay. Okay, I have to think. But I can't think. Lacey is swinging her dagger too fast. It's all I can do to block her blows. I don't _think_ she would hurt me, but, for once, that's a chance I can't take. It's too big a risk. I can't let her win this fight.

So maybe that means I'll have to win it.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

Maybe I'll have to win this fight, after all. Ivone doesn't show any signs of backing down, even though that was the plan. She was supposed to make it look like I was winning. But she doesn't seem to _want_ to. Maybe she doesn't think her allies will step in and save her. Or maybe…

Maybe this was her plan all along. Lure me in with promises of allying against her friends, and then turn on me now. But why now? She had the perfect opportunity to kill me before. Why wait?

Was she waiting so that her friends would see?

Maybe. Maybe it doesn't matter why. Maybe all that matters is that, suddenly, the fight is real. Her dagger comes swinging towards my side, and I barely manage to block the blow. I take a step backwards. Back towards the pile of weapons behind me. _Think_.

But I can't think. Everything is happening too fast – and nothing is happening according to plan. Ivone is quickly getting the upper hand. She's older. She's had three days to adjust to being in the arena, while I've been starving for most of the Games. This is a fight she should win. A fight she _will_ win, if I don't do something fast.

The weapons. There has to be something in that pile that can help. Something I can grab that might catch her by surprise. I can see a few axes, a few spears – with long enough handles that I might be able to grab from a distance. I just need a moment. A moment where I'm certain she won't strike.

I need the impossible – I need her to trust me.

"Ready?" I gasp, hopefully too quietly for either of the others to hear. I just need something quick – some sign that she won't strike while my guard is down. That we can both make it out of this fight alive. That we can still go through with our plan. Just a quick sign. Anything.

She winks.

That's all I need. She lunges. I duck, and she misses – on purpose, I hope. I grab the nearest spear, dropping my dagger in the process. She grabs hold of the shaft just as I do, tugging. Then shoving. As if trying to wrench it from my grasp. But she's smiling. She has a plan.

And I think I do, too.

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

This is taking longer than I thought it would. Maybe they're more evenly matched than I thought. I'd assumed that anyone desperate enough to come back to the top of the hill in search of supplies would be weak and tired, starving and thirsty. But the girl Ivone is sparring with seems to be almost a match for her.

Almost.

Not quite, though. It may not be obvious to anyone else yet, but Ivone has control of the spear. They're both tugging at it, but Ivone is slowly driving the girl backwards – back towards us. Jayda and me. Hoping that one of us will step in and finish the girl off once she drives her into our path.

Jayda, for her part, looks ready to do just that – and maybe even to finish Ivone off in the process. If she can't even stand up to a half-starved girl from Eight, then she probably won't be much use to us, anyway. Maybe that was the real reason we were both so hesitant to come back here. Maybe we both realized that our ally had outlived her usefulness, but neither of us wanted to finish the job ourselves.

Eventually, though, one of us will have to make a move. Ivone and the girl from Eight are getting closer. Closer. Jayda takes a step back – offering me the kill, maybe. Fair enough. She's had three so far, while I've only had two. I raise my spear as the pair of them draw closer.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I see it before Ra does – the look in Ivone's eyes. Just as they're within reach of his spear, the girl from Eight lets go of the spear, and Ivone whirls towards Ra, meaning to bury the spear in his chest. He dodges – but not completely. The spear lodges itself in his stomach even as he drops his own, grasping Ivone's spear before she can pull it out. Even in such a panic, he realized his first priority had to be keeping himself alive – and that, if she pulled the spear out, he would bleed to death.

The girl from Eight is already running. Smart. Ivone doesn't have time to do the same. She's too busy trying to pull her spear out of Ra's stomach. It's only a few seconds, but it's all the time I need – time enough to drive my dagger through her back.

Her eyes go wide. She clearly hadn't thought this part through. Did she think I was going to run once she took care of Ra? Did she think the girl from Eight was going to stick around, try to hold me off? What did she _think_ was going to happen?

She wasn't thinking. She was acting on instinct – just like I was, when I took a step back from the fight. Ra thought I was giving him the chance to make a kill, instead. But I saw something – felt something – _off_ about their fight, even before I had a chance to consciously form the thought. I was acting on instinct, and it saved my life.

Ivone wasn't so lucky.

Her cannon sounds, and I turn my attention to Ra. The girl from Eight can wait for now. She's too far away to catch, and his injuries are a more pressing concern. How do I get the spear out without killing him? What can I do to keep him from bleeding to death? What am I supposed to do now?

* * *

 **Ra Schintozo, 18  
** **District One**

She has no idea what she's supposed to do. Can't blame her for that, I suppose. I might not know what to do, either, if she was the one lying here, dying. Not that I'm dying. Not that I'm _going_ to die. I can't. I have a destiny to fulfill. I can't die now.

It's impossible.

"Find some cloth." My voice sounds weaker than I'd like, but at least it gets her attention, and she does as I said. She quickly strips the shirt from Ivone's body and kneels by my side. I nod towards the spear. "Okay. Pull it out, and then … and then press as hard as you can."

There's a look in her eyes. Doubt. She doesn't know whether this will work. But I do. It will. It _has_ to. I have to survive this.

I can't afford to doubt it.

She grasps the spear. I brace myself for the pain as she pulls it out, but it's still worse than I imagined. I think I'm screaming. I'm not really sure. Everything goes a bit blurry for a moment. I feel … lightheaded, I guess. Maybe it's the blood loss. She presses the shirt against the wound – hard.

It's not enough. The wound is still bleeding. Suddenly, the pain is interrupted by a soft, pinging noise. I almost laugh, but that would hurt too much. They sent us something! Something to help me.

Of course they did. I never doubted it. Did I? I'm not sure. These last few moments have been so … so fast. So uncertain. But help is here now. The parachute lands right at my feet, and Jayda opens the package. It's a small vial – a syringe of some sort. Maybe something to stop the bleeding, or to help the blood clot faster, or at least something for the pain.

Jayda looks at the vial. Then at me. Then back again. What is she waiting for? _Patience._ But how much time do I have? How much patience can I afford. "Hurry up!" I snap. "You're wasting time."

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

It's those words that finally do it – that tip the balance. Slowly, I stand up and take a step away. "No."

Ra's eyes are wide with confusion. "No? What do you mean?"

"I mean no."

"But it's meant for me. This is what's supposed to happen."

"I know." I know how this is supposed to play out. I save his life now, and, for a while, he's grateful enough not to try to kill me. But there are only eight of us left. How long can that gratitude last? Eventually, it'll come to a fight. Him and me. I can practically see it now.

And I'm not sure that's a fight I would win.

But I know it's a fight that's supposed to happen. A fight that the Capitol wants. A fight that the _Gamemakers_ want. Why else would they want me to save him now? But I don't have to do what they want. I don't have to play their little game – not if it means I might die later.

Because I don't want to die – even in some glorious, heroic fight to the death between me and Ra. I'm not here to give them the most amazing fight they could witness. I'm here to _win_ this thing. And if I'm going to win, Ra needs to die. Now or later – maybe it doesn't matter.

It still feels wrong. It feels almost … almost cowardly. But I take another step back. "Get back here!" Ra shouts, but his voice isn't as strong as it was before. Maybe it's the blood loss. Or maybe he's simply getting easier to ignore. He thinks he deserves this – whatever's in this bottle. Maybe he does. Maybe he's earned it; the audience sent it to him, after all. But if our positions were reversed, would he save me?

Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I don't _want_ to know. Maybe I don't _want_ the answer to be yes, because what would that make me? I take another step back. Ra's trying to sit up. And maybe he'll be able to do that. But he certainly won't be able to stand. He won't be able to follow if I leave.

But I can't simply leave. That _would_ be cowardly – leaving him to die here alone. Silently wishing for pockets, I tuck the vial inside one of my socks. Maybe it'll be useful later. Then I reach for a spear.

 _His_ spear.

Shouting turns to pleading as he realizes. "Please. Please don't. You can't. I have to live. I have to win this. It's my destiny. It's what I'm supposed to do."

Maybe it is. But it's not what I'm going to _let_ him do. I bring the spear down quickly towards his chest. He raises his arms to block it, but he's too weak. Or maybe I'm too strong. The spear passes straight through his body, and the cannon is immediate.

He's dead.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

Another cannon. That's two in the last few minutes. I glance over at Jethro as the last rays of light disappear behind the trees. There are only seven of us left in the arena. Only seven tributes – and only five who aren't one of us. How much longer can we really stay together? How much longer before we're forced to turn on each other? I wanted to leave before that happened, but now…

Suddenly, Jethro's eyes grow wide. "What?" I whisper, then turn to look where he's staring. The forest is lighter in the distance, off to the west, where the sun was setting. But it can't be getting lighter already – and the sun would be rising from the other direction. But the light _is_ getting brighter – a warm, burning light, almost like the sun.

Oh.

It's a fire – a forest fire, headed straight for us. Jethro and I spring to our feet, but he grabs my arm and points uphill. "That way. Run." Then he lets go.

I run. Without thinking twice, I run for it. Uphill and off to the east, away from the fire. As fast as I can. I don't even know how long it is before I glance around and realize he didn't come with me. He ran the other way.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

I ran the other way. It was the best thing I could do, really. Maybe the only thing. If there's a fire coming, the best option is probably to head for water. Downhill, into the swamp. To try to swim for safety.

But Mel can't swim.

So _her_ best option is to just run for it – to head for high ground and try to outrun the fire. My best option is what I'm doing now – diving into the waters of the marsh and hoping they'll be deep enough to protect me from the blaze. Hoping that there's enough water in the marsh that the fire will just pass right by and keep burning down the forest, instead. In order to give us _both_ a chance of survival, we had to split up.

That's what I want to believe, at least. Because this was where we had to separate. There are only seven tributes left. Only seven of us left in the whole arena, and this fire … I'm sure it's meant to kill a few of us. If Mel and I both survive, with only a few tributes left, I want to be as far away from her as possible.

I want to be as far from _anyone_ as possible.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

Part of me hopes that fire is as far away from anyone as possible. I can see it in the distance, but, really, there's no point in running from it now. I'm about as far away from it as I can get without heading back towards the marsh.

And I _don't_ want to head back towards the marsh.

So I sit tight, because it's the best thing I can do. Maybe the _only_ thing I can do. If the fire gets too close, I won't be able to outrun it. But it doesn't seem to be meant for me. With any luck, there are plenty of other tributes closer to its path.

With any luck. And I was just hoping that it was far away from the other tributes. I shake my head. I can't afford to hope that anymore. There are only seven tributes left in the arena. As terrible as it sounds, it's in my best interest to _hope_ that some of them will be killed by that fire, that some of them won't be able to escape. I have to _hope_ that some of the other tributes will die a painful, fiery death.

What does that make me?

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

What does that make me, if I kill him, too? I can see Bentley by the stream, silently shaking his head. He doesn't see me – not yet. He's watching the fire in the distance, probably hoping the same thing I am – that some of the other tributes will be caught up in the fire and killed. As it is, there are only seven of us left. By the end of the night, there could be fewer.

No, by the end of the night, there _will_ be fewer, because I'm going to kill Bentley. That's what I came here for, after all. But now that I'm here, I can feel the knife the audience sent me shaking in my hand.

Why is this any different? Why does the thought of killing him bother me more than the fact that I already killed Phoebe and Apollo? There's blood on his clothes. He may be hurt. For all I know, I'm doing him the same favor that I did them – killing him quickly and mercifully. That's what I did, after all.

For Phoebe, at least.

 _Stop it._

Maybe I'm just scared. He's armed, too, after all, as long as he hasn't lost the knife that he found. What if he fights back? Will I be able to overpower him in time?

So I'll just have to make sure he doesn't have the chance to fight back. Slowly, as quietly as I can, I take a step forward. Then another. He doesn't turn. He's still watching the fire. This is easy. I'm almost close enough.

Almost too easy.

Suddenly, he turns. Whirls around to face me and leaps to his feet. Maybe I wasn't as quiet as I thought. Maybe I stepped on a twig. Maybe he could hear me breathing. Either way, he's seen me, and the knife in my hand can leave him no doubts about what I was about to do.

"Ada." His voice is dry. "I thought…"

"You thought I'd be dead by now?" I almost laugh. Because I never thought the same thing about him. Even without the message the audience sent telling me where to go, I would never have just assumed he was dead. Would I?

Maybe I would have. He's younger than me, after all. Smaller than me. He should be dead by now. He _will_ be dead soon. So why wouldn't I have assumed it?

"I thought you'd still be with the others," he finishes instead. Is that was he was going to say? Probably not. But I take a step back at the thought. He assumed – maybe – that I'd still be protecting the others. That I'd stay with Phoebe and Apollo until the end.

Except I _did_. The fact that their end came at my hands … that's something I don't have to tell him. "They're dead," I explain. "After they died, I … I left to find you." Also true. I don't have to tell him the rest – that I wanted to find him in order to fight him. In order to _kill_ him.

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I'm not ready for another fight. I don't _want_ to fight her. Not just because we were allies, but because I don't think that's a fight I'm going to win. Yes, I've already killed two people, but the boy from Nine was already injured, and the girl from Three was practically starving. Ada's well-rested and, from the look of her, well-fed. And she's ready for a fight.

It's a fight I'm not ready for.

But it may be a fight I can't avoid. There are only seven of us left. That fire is moving quickly. If it kills a few more tributes, a fight now might be inevitable. This could be the _last_ fight I have to fight. She could be the _last_ person I have to kill.

Or vice versa.

It should be harder to process – the fact that she wants to kill me. We were allies. Friends. But … but were we really? Were we really friends, or were we just two people who ended up in a group together? What did we ever really have in common? How much did I really trust her?

So maybe it's not really a surprise – the way that she's looking at me now. The look in her eyes as she takes another step towards me. And then another. Maybe this was unavoidable from the start. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe this was what was always going to happen.

* * *

 **General Luther Tyrone  
** **District Seven Escort**

Maybe this was inevitable. Maybe this was always how their alliance was going to play out. I told him from the start not to trust the rest of them, but can I really blame him for not listening? He's just a kid. They're _all_ just kids. Even the ones who have turned on their allies – even Ada, even Jayda – they're just trying to survive. They just want to live.

And only one of them can.

I glance over at Maverick, who's sitting silently beside Gloria, watching the screens and pretending to be interested. Trying hard not to cry. He's lost both his tributes in one day – not an easy thing for anyone, let alone for a fourteen-year-old kid fresh out of his own Games. But even now, there's a look in his eyes – a determination I saw in the arena last year. He'll get through this. And he'll find some way to turn it into a victory. I know that. I don't have to worry about him.

Bentley, on the other hand, has plenty of reason to worry. Ada is slowly inching her way towards him, and he doesn't have anywhere to run. I'm not sure running has even crossed his mind. He knows this fight has to happen. He's just looking for some way he can win it.

I just hope he finds one.

* * *

 **Congrats to Ivone, who won the "final four" poll ... and to Ra, Lacey, and Mel, who tied for a close second. Everyone got at least one vote, which I thought was pretty cool.**

 **Victor poll is up on my profile, so go ahead and vote for who you'd like to see as the Victor. To be honest, I'm pretty sure I've got my Victor picked, but I'd still like to know who people are partial to.**


	30. Decide

**Decide**

" _Let me be a part of the narrative in the story they will write someday. Let this moment be the first chapter where you decide to stay."_

* * *

 **Bentley Norman, 13  
** **District Seven**

I have to make a decision quickly. If I'm going to run, it has to be now. If I'm going to fight Ada, maybe I should be the one to make the first move. Maybe she won't expect that. She came here hoping to sneak up on me and stab me in the back, after all. Is she really ready for a fight?

Am I? I've only fought one person so far, really – the girl from Three. And I nearly died. She was only a little older than me. Ada … she's older, but is she really stronger? Has she really had anything to eat or drink in the last few days? She certainly doesn't look like she could take on a stronger tribute in a fight.

But I'm not a stronger tribute. I'm a little kid from District Seven. I just want … I don't know. I just want to live. But if I'm going to live, I have to fight. If I run, I probably won't be able to get away. And even if I can, running away from her means running towards the fire in the distance. That's something I don't want to do.

So I lunge. I lunge low, aiming for her legs, hoping that she won't be expecting it. She isn't. My knife slices across one of her thighs before she manages to dodge, yelping and kicking me in the stomach. _Ouch_. For a moment, I can't breathe, and, in that moment, she's on top of me, her own knife digging into my back.

Shit. I wasn't expecting that. I don't know what I was expecting, but … not this. Not for her to strike back so quickly. She pulls the knife out, then quickly stabs again, but I manage to roll out of the way in time, and the knife – coated with my blood – plunges into the river. I scramble backwards, but she lunges forward, almost like an animal.

Is that all we are now? A pair of animals, tussling in the woods? Fighting over … what? This time, I can't even claim that we're fighting over water. She didn't ask me for any. She just snuck up on me. And I just attacked. This is more basic – more instinctual – even than fighting over food or water. We're fighting to _survive_.

And I'm losing.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

He's losing. That much is obvious from the blood on my knife. More than on his. My cut went deeper. I lunge again, grasping hold of his ankle before he can get away. My knife runs along his shin, and he cries out. Like some sort of animal. But then he kicks, and the knife falls from my hand. He's bleeding as he scrambles for it, grabbing the knife from where it's fallen in the stream. I scurry backwards, waiting for him to strike.

He does. The blade plunges towards my chest, and I barely have time to roll out of the way. Something slices into my shoulder, and I my arms flail blindly in the darkness. Where did he go? I scramble to my feet, then look down in time to see his blade – _my_ blade – slice across my leg. I tumble backwards.

Right on top of him.

There's a quiet "oof" as I land on him, then a clanking noise as the knife falls from his hand, landing on a rock nearby. Still pinning him with the rest of my body, I reach for it. He's wriggling beneath me, but he can't get free. He doesn't have any sort of leverage, and the ground is too slippery for him to grab hold of anything and pry himself free. My hand closes around the knife.

"Please," he whispers.

 _Please._

It's that word – that one word – that snaps me out of it. He wants to live. The others – Phoebe and Apollo – I could pretend. I could pretend that I was doing them a favor, that I was putting them out of their misery. But Bentley … he wants to live. He doesn't _want_ me to kill him.

He's wriggling again. Maybe he can tell that I heard him. That I'm listening. There are tears in my eyes. I want to let him go. I _want_ to. But I can't. Because as much as I want to listen to him, as much as I want to spare his life … I also want to live.

I just want to live.

I drag the knife across his throat. The pleading stops. The cannon sounds. It's over. For him. But not for me. I'm still alive. I've killed _three_ people. Three of my allies. Three of my _friends_. And I'm still alive.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

I'm still alive. Another cannon sounds as I continue to race down the hill, away from Jayda and Ra and Ivone and … and whatever's happening back there. Whatever _happened_ back there. Because whatever it is, it's long over. Whoever's dead is dead. And I … I ran. I survived.

I'm still alive.

But I won't be for much longer, if I keep running in this direction. I can see a fire in the distance, off to my right, lighting up the forest. I turn to the left quickly, gripping the dagger that I swiped from the pile as I ran. After I dropped the spear and left Ivone to her fate.

Maybe she managed to kill both of them. Maybe she killed one, and the other ran. Or maybe they killed her. I don't know. I'm not sure I _want_ to know. Because if she's dead, that means I abandoned her. I left her to die – left her to be _killed_. And if she's still alive – if she's somehow one of the six tributes who are left – then that means I might have to face her again. I might have to _kill_ her.

I don't know if I could do that.

Hell, I don't know if I could kill _anyone._ Fat lot of good I was in the fight against Ra and Jayda. Sure, I managed to hold my own against Ivone, but I was never really trying to kill her. That was just for show. Wasn't it? In the end, she turned on her allies, which is what we meant to do from the start. If things got a bit muddled in between, that's all right. Everything turned out all right.

For me. Everything turned out all right for me. So far, everything has. Mantle died, and I ran. Jim died, and I ran. Ivone is probably dead, and I … I ran again. And now I'm running from a damn forest fire, because … well, because what else am I supposed to do? Fight it? I can't fight an entire forest.

Suddenly, I can hear something in the distance. Coughing. There's someone else – someone else here. It's coming from behind me – a little downhill, and a little closer to the fire. I don't dare turn to look. I can't afford to waste any time. If there's someone there, I'll just have to hope that the fire will get them before they can get me.

Before they can get me. My stomach clenches at the thought. Someone could be chasing me right now. Maybe they've seen me. What if they want to _kill_ me? It could be anyone. But I can't turn and look. Maybe I don't want to know.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

She hasn't turned around – hasn't seen me yet – but she probably heard me coughing. She slowed down for a moment, when she heard that. But I couldn't help it. The smoke is getting thicker. I'm running as fast as I can, but I don't know how much longer I can keep it up. Certainly the fire can keep going longer than I can.

Okay. Okay, just _think._ What would Jethro do?

I can't hold back another cough as a gust of wind blows the smoke closer, stinging my eyes. I fight back the tears – tears because of anger or simply tears because of the smoke, I'm not even sure. I know _exactly_ what Jethro would do, because I know exactly what he _did_. He left me. He ran the other way. Probably towards the marsh, because he can swim.

And I can't.

So it doesn't matter what Jethro would do. All that matters is what _I'm_ going to do. And I'm _not_ going to burn to death in a damn forest fire. Not when I'm so close. Not when there are only six of us left. Only six tributes in the whole arena, and I'm one of them. Only five more tributes who have to die if I'm going to live.

And one of them is right in front of me. Running away as quickly as I am. But she doesn't seem to be much faster. I might even be getting closer. Between the darkness and the smoke, it's hard to tell. But is trying to kill her _really_ a good idea right now?

Except … maybe I don't _have_ to kill her. Maybe I just have to slow her down a little. If I can injure her a little – slow her down a bit – the fire might do the rest. My stomach churns just _thinking_ about it, but … but she has to die. And I might not win a fair fight. I might not get the _chance_ for a fair fight. This may be the best chance that I have.

I have to take it.

* * *

 **Lacey Blair, 16  
** **District Eight**

"Help!" I barely hear the voice above the flames. A small voice. A _child's_ voice. I turn instinctively, and then I see her. On the ground, maybe a hundred yards behind me. Just lying there, near a fallen tree. Is she trapped? Maybe. Probably.

The fire is getting closer. Saving her isn't an option, but maybe … well, maybe I can end it quickly. I have a dagger, after all. That would be kinder. Better than leaving her to burn to death in a forest fire. "Please! Please, help me! I'm stuck!"

I can feel tears in my eyes. Maybe it's just the smoke. Maybe it's the fact that I think … I think I recognize the girl. I'm not sure, but I think she's the little girl from Nine. Jim's district partner. What was her name? Millie? Melody? Something like that, I think.

Melanie. Mel, I think. And having a name to go with the screams … that just makes them harder to ignore. I can't just leave her here to burn. She has to die, but I can make it quick. I turn and head back towards her, shielding my eyes from the smoke. It won't take me long. She probably can't even move. Maybe the tree fell on her while she was running. Maybe she just didn't see it.

But I didn't _hear_ a tree fall.

Closer. Closer. I can see her face now. She's crying. I probably would be, too. Hell, I probably _am_ crying from this damn smoke. "Please," she whimpers as I kneel down beside her.

Too late, I see the knife clenched in her little fist. The knife that plunges into my thigh even as I kneel down next to her. I'm too startled to do anything but scream in pain as she leaps up and sprints off. Not really thinking, I hurl my dagger at her retreating form, but she's too far away. _Shit._ Blood. There's blood everywhere. _My_ blood.

And there's a fire right behind me. A fire that's getting closer as I rip a few strips of fabric from my shirt and tie them around the wound, hoping for the best. Hoping to stop the bleeding. They don't. Blood seeps down my leg as I take one step, then another. Pain shoots up from my thigh with every step, but I can't stop. If I stop, I'll die.

I'll probably die anyway. The forest is getting hotter. But, even worse, the smoke is getting thicker. Thicker and thicker. I'm coughing as badly as she was now. Everything seems to be getting blurry. Maybe it's the smoke. Maybe it's the blood loss. I don't know. All I know is that I have to keep moving. I have to keep going, or I'll burn to death.

Exactly the thing I was trying to save Mel from having to endure. The irony isn't lost on me. The smoke is filling my lungs. I can't … I can't breathe. Maybe the smoke will kill me before the flames can. Maybe not. They're getting closer. Closer. They haven't reached me yet, but—

But then I see it. The forest ahead of me – it's burning. The flames were moving faster than I was. They're cutting me off. Shit. I clench my teeth, wishing I hadn't thrown my dagger. If I still had it, maybe I could kill myself before the fire would. Maybe…

The flames are growing hotter. Closer. There's nowhere to run. Nowhere to go. I sink to the ground, curled in a ball, trying to shield myself from the flames. But it's no good. I still can't breathe. The flames lap at my clothes, my hair, my skin.

I can't stop screaming.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I can hear her screaming. My stomach lurches at the sound, but I don't dare stop. I've been running uphill – away from the flames, I hope, and quickly enough to avoid them – but I'm not safe yet. I won't be safe until I'm out of the arena. I won't be safe until all of the others are dead. I won't be safe. I won't. I can't let my guard down – not even for a moment.

That was her mistake.

Even thinking that feels awful. She was trying to help. If not trying to help me escape the log I was hiding behind, then at least trying to give me a quick death. Which is more than I did for her. But if I'd stayed – if I'd tried for even one more blow – she might have hurt me, too. We could _both_ have died, instead of just her.

Except she isn't dead yet. I haven't heard her cannon. Please. Please, just let the cannon sound. Let the screams end. Please. I clench my fists, trying to focus on something – anything – else. My own ragged breathing. The pounding of my heart. Something. Anything to block out the screams.

And then there's nothing. Silence. Only a moment of silence before the cannon finally sounds. She's dead. I may not have killed her, but I did something far worse. I left her to be burned alive. And still … I'm not sorry. I can't _afford_ to be sorry. Not until four more tributes are dead.

 _Then_ I can let myself feel bad about it.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

Another cannon. I grip my dagger tightly as I pace the top of the hill. It feels wrong – just staying here. But it's the right move. This is the high ground. If the fire spreads, this will be the safest place to be, except maybe the water. And the only way to the water is through the fire or down a steep cliff. So top of the hill it is.

Maybe that even means the other tributes will be coming this way. It's certainly where I'd go – dangerous or not. I'd head for high ground. For where it seems safest.

I seem to have gotten pretty good at doing what's safest.

 _Stop it._ Killing Ra wasn't just safe; it was smart. He had to die. He wasn't going to get better without the medicine the Capitol sent. And why waste it on him when I can save it for myself, if something goes wrong? Why heal someone who has to die, anyway?

 _But they sent it for him._ That thought keeps nagging at the back of my mind. The Capitol, the audience – they sent the package for _him._ They were trying to keep him alive. Does that mean they'll blame me for keeping the medicine from him, for killing him, instead? Does that mean they'll try to make sure I die?

Maybe. But if he was still alive, he'd be doing the same thing – trying to get me killed. There are only five tributes left. If he were still here – even if it was _six_ tributes left – it would clearly be time for our alliance to end. Whoever's left, one of us would be enough to handle them.

Who _is_ left? The paper that came with the medicine for Ra is little help. _1F, 2M, 3F, 12F, 12M._ But most of those, we already knew. We killed Charlotte and Julian, after all. I killed Ivone and Isaac. The girl from Three … honestly, it's more of a surprise that she lasted this long than that she's dead. The girl from Eight is still alive – or, at least, she was when she ran away from us. But either of the last two cannons – the cannons since Ra's – might have been hers. Aside from her, I have no way of knowing who else might be left. Who might be coming to fight me.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

I probably won't be going anywhere for quite a while. As I'd hoped, the fire passed right by the marsh. The dry trees in the forest weren't quite so lucky. They're burning like … well, like a forest fire, I suppose. I've never really seen one. Even the fire from last year's Games … it wasn't like this. It didn't have _fuel_ like this, and the Gamemakers sent rain to douse it pretty quickly. This fire has plenty of fuel, and it's not showing any signs of letting up.

Fortunately, I think I'm pretty safe where I am. The worst of the fire has moved on, leaving the charred remains of branches behind. There are still flames, but not nearly as bad as they were. The smoke was pretty thick for a while, but I'm far enough away – but not too far into the marsh. It's only up to my chest, but I didn't dare go any deeper. If it were to drop off, I'd have no way of knowing beforehand. No sign until I just stepped into nothingness. The girl from Five drowned in a marsh last year. And that's not how I mean to go.

Not when I'm so close. Not when there are only five of us left. _Five._ Just five tributes left, and I'm one of them.

Me and who else? I don't really have any way of knowing. I mean, I know a few people who _aren't_ left. But that's not much help now. That doesn't really help me narrow it down. I have no idea who to expect if I run into another tribute.

No, not if. _When_ I run into another tribute. Because either way this goes, I'll certainly run into someone before the end. Unless they're all kind enough to kill each other off before any of them find me. Or the fire kills them all, I suppose. But that seems like a bit too much to hope for. The Gamemakers would probably send some rain before they let that happen. A fire burning up the arena wouldn't be a great way to end the Games.

So what _would_? What would make a good ending? A perfect finale? I set the fire, and that might be enough to win some of them over, but what else could I do to entertain them? To keep their attention, now that they're probably focused on the tributes who are dying, instead?

 _One thing at a time._ I'm not going _anywhere_ right now. Unless another tributes happens to find me, I'm not going to be doing much of anything besides sitting here for the time being. Well, _standing_ here.

Suddenly, I hear a splash. Or, at least, I think I do. I whirl around, looking for whatever made the noise. But the fire is starting to die down over here, and the light from the flames is giving way to the night again. I didn't really think about that. Didn't think about what else might be in the swamp.

I wonder if it's safe enough to venture back to land.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

I have to do something before he decides it's safe to head back to land. If he sets foot on dry ground again, I lose my advantage. It didn't take me long to find him, after I found my way to the marsh. He was splashing his way through the water, not even trying to be quiet. Maybe he figured no one else would head for the marsh. Maybe he didn't realize anyone from District Four was left.

After all, what are the odds of that? If I wasn't in the Games myself, would I have bet on a tribute from Four making it this far? They were the first two to die last year. And who else would head for the water? Maybe District Seven. There are forests in Seven, so maybe there are rivers. Or lakes. Or something. But other than that…

Other than that, who would feel safe in the water? Certainly not a boy from Six. He's moving cautiously towards the land, but he has a long way to go. And he's being careful. Maybe he's not sure the fire's burned down enough to be safe yet. Maybe he's trying not to attract the attention of whatever it is he _thinks_ is in the water.

But he already _has_ my attention. I've been keeping low – ducking under the surface, only coming up for air, gripping my knife the whole time, bracing myself. Trying to convince myself that attacking him is the right move. I've done it before. But the boy from Eight was smaller than me. And the boy from Three … when I jumped out of the tree, I knew Mel was there. I knew she would back me up.

Now I have no one to save me if things go wrong. No backup plan to fall back on if this falls apart. He has a weapon – an axe, I think. I didn't get a good look in the dark, and now he's facing the other way. If I give him the chance to strike me, I could be dead.

 _So don't give him the chance._

I swim a little closer. As close as I dare without ducking under the water. He keeps looking around, but it's too dark. Too dark for him to tell my hair from a clump of marsh grass at this distance. But if I get closer…

But I have to. I can't attack him from here. I don't have a bow – and wouldn't really know how to use one even if I did. I can't throw my knife. I mean, I suppose I _could_ , but what are the chances I would really hit him? What are the chances I could hit him well enough to _kill_ him? And I'd be throwing away my only weapon. I can't afford to do that.

So I have to get closer. I take a deep breath and duck under the water, my knife clenched firmly in my grasp. I can't see under the water. It would probably be too murky even under normal circumstances. In the dark … not a chance. But I know where I'm going. I know what I'm aiming for.

I'm aiming for his back. A quick stab in the back. Maybe enough to kill him. Certainly enough to take him out of the game. Even if I can't kill him, someone else will. Or he'll bleed to death. Or he'll die of infection from the marsh water. All I have to do is hurt him. That's all.

It sounds so simple. I hold my breath. I'm getting closer. I have to be. Everything's so disorienting under here when I can't see. Or maybe I'm just getting jumpy.

The water isn't that deep. What if I'm too close to the surface? What if he sees me? What if I just hit his arm, instead, and don't really hurt him that much? What if I miss entirely?

Suddenly, my arm brushes something. Something that squirms away. I slash without thinking, across what I hope is his back. Probably not, because something kicks me back. I hit his leg, instead. I strike again, stabbing instead of slashing, higher than before. I dig my knife in as deep as I can. I hear something, muffled through the water. Probably a scream. Something kicks again, but not as hard. He's trying to stand on his injured leg and kick with the other. I think. That's as much as I can guess at in the dark.

He hasn't hurt me yet. Not really. But it's only a matter of time before he gets lucky. Something splashes nearby. Maybe his arm, maybe his axe. I have no way of knowing. I have to get out of here. Have to get as far away from him as I can before I surface.

Back to the deeper water. There's no way that's where he'll go. I turn on the spot, hoping I haven't lost my sense of direction completely. It's only once I've swum as far as I can and finally surfaced that I realize I let go of my knife.

* * *

 **Jae Park, 17  
** **District Six**

There's still a knife in my side. I'm gasping as I make my way to the shore. Somewhere deeper in the marsh, the tribute surfaces, gasping for air. But I can't worry about that. Whoever's out there, they're no longer my biggest concern. My biggest concern is the knife sticking out of my ribcage. If I remove it…

I'll bleed. I know that much. But is leaving it in an option? The slightest jolt could knock it out. And what are the chances I'll get through the rest of the Games without so much as a jolt? Isn't it better if I take it out on _my_ terms, when I might be able to stop the bleeding? I collapse on the shore, hoping the other tribute will stay in the deeper water. Hoping they just wanted to stab me and run – or swim, I guess – away, and that they won't stay to make sure I'm finished off.

Because the truth is, if they try to finish the job, I won't be able to put up much of a fight. I dropped my axe in my panic, trying to thrash my way to the shore. Tried to hit him with it first – or her, I suppose. I don't know. I have no way of knowing.

Actually…

Marsh water. Water. So probably District Four. That narrows it down considerably, and I think the girl died near the start, didn't she? I don't know. It seems like such a long time ago. And my memory's getting a bit fuzzy. Maybe it's the pain.

The pain. It hurts more than I thought it would. More than I would have imagined. I mean, you never think that getting stabbed is going to feel _good_ , but I never imagined it being this bad. Even my leg – easily the lesser of the two injuries – feels like it's going to just fall off.

It won't. It's more of a thin slice than anything. Certainly not as deep as the wound in my side. But there must be something in the marsh water that's making it sting like hell. I take a deep breath, but even that's painful. Did the knife go into my lung? Would I be dead now if it had? Maybe. Or maybe the fact that the knife is still lodged in my side is blocking some of the bleeding. If I take it out…

I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm a kid from District Six who helps out at the train station! I'm not a doctor. I'm not prepared for this. I'm not—

Not what?

I'm here. I'm a tribute. And, in a way, this is my own doing. _I'm_ the one who set the fire, after all. _I'm_ the reason I was hiding in the marsh in the first place. I'm the one who came up with the idea. I made a decision. And now I'm stuck in the consequences. Maybe it wasn't a great idea – maybe it was even a terrible one – but now I have to see it through. If I'm going to win, I have to make my way through this.

Which means I have to do _something_. There are still four other tributes out there. If one of them realizes that all they have to do is yank this knife out of my side and I'll bleed to death, I'm done for. Maybe I'm done for anyway. But maybe it's better to find out now, when there's no one else. Well, no one else except whoever was in the marsh. But with any luck, they're still out in the deeper part of it. With any luck, this knife was their only weapon.

Maybe. Could I really get that lucky? I clench my teeth as I take my shirt off, careful not to bump the knife. Not until I want to take it out. Well, _want_ is a relative term, I suppose. I don't want to do any of this. But right now, I don't really have much of a choice.

Okay. One thing at a time. First things first. Now I have some cloth to stop the bleeding. Maybe. Is this going to be enough? I don't really have many other options. My pants are soaked clean through with marsh water, and even my shirt is wet – but not as wet. It's a bit cleaner. Maybe it'll infect the wound. Maybe it's only a temporary fix. But it only _needs_ to be a temporary fix. Once I'm out of the arena—

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First I have to get this knife out. Not just because it has to come out eventually, but because now it's my only weapon. The only chance I have if another tribute happens to find me.

 _When_ another tribute happens to find me.

I grip the handle of the knife tightly in one hand. I need to pull it straight out – that much I can figure out on my own. I don't want to cause any more damage by letting it slip one way or the other. I hold my shirt in my other hand, bracing myself. This is going to hurt. I want to close my eyes, or at least to look away. But I don't dare. I have to pay attention to what I'm doing.

So I watch as I slide the knife out of my side. I watch as the blood comes gushing out along with it. I clench my mouth shut, trying to keep myself from crying out, but a whimper of pain escapes anyway. It's all I can do to press my shirt hard against my side, hoping that it'll be enough.

But it isn't. I can tell from the amount of blood. I'm beginning to get dizzy. Lightheaded. I shake my head, desperate to stay conscious. If I pass out, I'll die. Either I'll die from blood loss, or someone will come along and kill me. I'll have no one to help me. No one to bring me out of it, to wake me up again. No one, because everyone who could have helped me is dead.

Everyone.

Elinor. Elinor is dead. She's been dead for days. And even then … would she have helped me? With only five of us left, would she have tried to keep me alive? What if she was in my place? Would I help her?

No. No, I didn't even help her back at the start when there were more of us left. Even then, I didn't risk my life to help her. If I had…

If I had, I would have died. But I'm going to die, anyway. My body slumps to the ground, and I land on my side – one last attempt to put pressure on the wound. But it won't do any good. Because I can see him now – the boy. He must be the boy from the water. Standing over me. He must have heard me. Realized that I'm a goner anyway. That I'd be too weak to fight back.

And I am. There's nothing I can do as he kneels down beside me, picking up his knife from where I let it fall when I pulled it out. One of my arms moves, but not enough. Not enough to stop him as he reaches towards my throat. I barely feel the blade before everything goes dark.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

His cannon sounds immediately. In the firelight that's dying down in the distance, I finally get a good look at the boy. The boy from Six, I think. I … I don't even remember his name. He and his district partner – they mostly kept to themselves during training. I suppose Mel and I did the same, once we decided to team up. Not much point in getting to know anyone else. Even my district partner, Lexi, was essentially a stranger.

Maybe it's better that way. Or maybe it _should_ be better, at least. But that doesn't help as I see the blood. The blood that came from the wound in his side, the wound where _I_ dug my knife in. It's all I can do to keep from vomiting all over his body. I thought this would get easier, now that there are fewer of us. Thought it would be easier to convince myself that this was what I had to do.

And maybe it was. After all, he could have killed me if he'd made it to land before we'd fought. As it was, it wasn't much of a fight. I had the advantage in the water. But now I'm on land. And the other tributes – the other three who are left – they're probably on land. There are only four of us, but how much of a chance do I really have?

 _Stop it._ I need to focus. Focus on what I _can_ do. I know he had a weapon. An axe. I have my knife back now, but having an axe to go with it would be even better. He wasn't very deep in the marsh when he dropped it. I could probably find it. Maybe it's not much, but it would give me something to do. Something to take my mind off…

Off what I just did. Before, I had Mel to talk to. Maybe she helped me more than I wanted to admit. Having her there … I guess it helped keep me focused. I wonder if she's still alive. I wonder if I'll see her again.

No. No, I hope I don't. Because if I see her again, I might have to kill her. And that … I don't know if I could do that. What would we do, if it came down to the two of us? Could either of us really kill the other? What would the Gamemakers do if we couldn't?

I shake the thought from my head. We could. We would have to. That's how the Games work. There are no exceptions. There's only one rule. Kill or be killed. Win or die. It's as simple as that.

I wade into the water of the swamp once more. It feels good. It feels almost … almost safe. But I know I can't stay here forever. Eventually, I'll have to face whoever's left. I just hope it isn't Mel.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

Another cannon. One cannon since the girl from Eight. Three cannons since Jethro and I left each other. Since he left me. Or maybe since I left him. I ran, too, after all. But I ran the way he told me to. He wanted me to leave.

Anyway.

Three cannons. I don't know whether to hope that one of them was his or not. Part of me wants to believe that he's still alive. That heading for the water – which is probably what he did – was enough to keep him safe from the fire. The fire that's still behind me – but moving slower now, as if it's started running out of fuel. Maybe that makes sense. The trees are thinner over here. There isn't much grass. Not much fuel for the fire.

But I don't dare stop. If I stop, it might catch up to me. Or, worse, if I stop, I might have time to think. And if I take the time to think…

I swallow hard. If I take the time to think, I might end up crying. And I can't afford to do that. The Capitol is watching. I have to look strong, even if the thought of what happened – of what I _did_ – makes me sick. I want to stop. I want to lie down and rest and cry and maybe sleep. But I can't do any of that. I have to keep moving. I have to keep fighting.

Because the end is close now. There are only four of us left. It's only a matter of time before we find each other, and I have to be ready. I have to be ready for _anything_.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I have to be ready for anything. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. But the truth is that things are working out pretty well so far. Three cannons since Ra's, and I haven't had to lift a finger. Either the fire has been killing the other tributes, or it's been driving them together. But so far, it hasn't driven anyone to the top of the hill.

It's only a matter of time, though. As the fire begins to die down in the distance, I can feel a drop of rain. Then another. They're putting out the fire – a cue to us that it's safe to move again. Safe to hunt again.

Safe. As safe as it's ever going to be. It's still dark – it can't be more than halfway through the night. A finale in the dark. Is that really what they want? I suppose there's probably some sort of night vision setting on their cameras, so it makes little difference to them. But how are we supposed to find each other when we can't really see anything? The fire provided at least some light, but now even that is dying down. How are we supposed to find each other?

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I don't know how they expect us to find each other in the dark, especially now that the rain is starting to put out the fire in the distance. That provided at least a little light, but now … now everything's going dark again, and we've still got a long way to go until morning. Chances are, the Games will be over before the dawn of the fourth day. A little shorter than last year's.

Maybe the fire sped things up more than they expected. I wonder who set it. There didn't seem to be any lightning strike or anything that would cause a fire naturally. Could one of the tributes have set it? But why? Were they hoping to drive the rest of us out of hiding? But the fire's starting to die, and I still haven't moved. Not since…

Not since I killed Bentley. His body is still lying here, lifeless, beside the stream. It didn't seem right, somehow, to leave him – this last little reminder of my alliance. The alliance that Darrin held together until…

Maybe he didn't realize, really, just how much _he_ was the one holding us together, keeping us all safe. But he couldn't keep us safe forever. No one is safe in the Games. No one. Not him. Not Phoebe or Apollo or Bentley. And certainly not me. Certainly not now – not now that the Games are beginning to come to a close.

I turn my knife over in my hands, then pick up Bentley's, as well. I don't know if I have a chance of surviving this. There's a part of me that's not sure I _want_ to survive it. A part that thinks it might be easier to just lie down and wait. To join Bentley and Apollo and Phoebe in the rest I sent them to. To join Darrin, who chose to sacrifice himself for us.

But if I die now … it's not a sacrifice. There's nothing left to sacrifice myself for. And if I die now, he died for nothing. The last of the people he saved would be dead. If I die, then they all died for nothing – not only Darrin, but Phoebe and Apollo and Bentley. I killed them so that _I_ could live. If I don't … then it all means nothing.

* * *

 **Titus Taveras  
** **District Two Escort**

Jayda's been doing impressively well, but it all means nothing if she doesn't keep her head now. She's killed _five_ tributes. Mantle. Charlotte. Isaac. Ivone. And Ra. Five. That alone is enough to pass anyone's kill total from last year. The girls from Two and Seven last year each had four kills.

But neither of them won. Maverick, who earned his place here in the room beside us, only had _three_ kills. But he won, anyway. Even if Jayda kills two of the others – and works her way up to _seven_ kills – it means nothing if the last one kills her, instead. In order to make it worth it – in order to make their _deaths_ worth it – she has to win. She has to come home. Or else she killed them for nothing.

I glance around the room. At June, Isaac, and Phoenix. Only the four of us have tributes left, but we're not the only ones with a stake in the Games. There are some who are cheering for Jayda, yes, but also some – Gloria, notably – who are a bit … well, I guess "miffed" is the right word – that she decided to kill Ra instead of helping him.

Still, I can't help feeling like she made the right choice. If he was still alive now, they'd easily be the strongest group in the arena. The _only_ group, really, now that Jethro and Mel have split. But how long would that alliance have lasted? How long before they turned on each other? And is that really a fight Jayda would have won?

* * *

 **Phoenix LaVelle  
** **District Nine Escort**

Mel really has to play it smart now if she wants this to be a fight that she can win. Maverick won last year, yes, and he wasn't any older than she is … but he wasn't going up against trained killers. Not at the end, at least. Jayda is clearly the tribute to beat here, and I can't help wondering if Mel really has a chance of doing that.

I shake my head. It all depends on who finds each other first. If Jayda's injured or weakened, maybe Mel would have a chance. But right now, she's in perfect condition. Most of them are, actually – aside from a few scrapes and bruises. Jehtro is still a bit winded from his fight with Jae, still a bit banged up where Rick slammed his head against the ground, but other than that…

Other than that, they're all in pretty good shape. Jayda's uninjured and well-armed. Physically, Ada might be in the worst shape; Bentley stabbed her before she managed to kill him. But she's bandaged the wound, and, with the bread she was sent last night and the water from the stream where she found Bentley, she's pretty well-fed. But Mel's been even more well-fed, thanks to the food that she and Jethro found in Atleigh's pack at the start. And she's armed, yes, but only with a knife. Ada has two. Jehtro finally managed to fish Jae's axe out of the marsh. But Jayda has an entire pile of weapons at her disposal.

But there's a downside to that. She can't use all of them at once. And if she stays at the top of the hill, any tributes who approach might have a chance to grab something from the pile. Still, strategically, it's probably the best spot for her – and probably the spot where the Gamemakers will try to drive the others.

It's what I would do – try to bring the Games full circle. End them where they started. Drive all the tributes back to the top of the hill to face off against each other. It's really the only spot for it. It's just a matter of how the Gamemakers will choose to get them there, now that the fire has died down.

* * *

 **June Pennington  
** **District Four Escort**

It's only a matter of time before the Gamemakers start to drive them together. There are only four of them left, and only one logical place for them to go – back to the top of the hill where Jayda will be waiting for them. But I'm not really sure how the Gamemakers plan to get them there, now that the fire has died down.

And even the fire wouldn't have driven them _all_ there. Jethro made a smart move when he decided to hide in the marsh. It kept him safe, and even gave him a relatively easy kill – and another weapon. I'm starting to think that maybe … maybe he's really got a chance.

I can't afford to get too cocky, though. There are still four tributes left. Still three tributes – and two of them quite a bit older – who have to die if he wants to go home. And one of them is Mel. If it comes to a fight between the two of them, I don't know what he'd do. I don't know what _she'd_ do. Would either of them really be able to kill an ally?

* * *

 **Isaac Graves  
** **District Five Escort**

Maybe it's a good thing that Ada doesn't have any allies left. That she killed three of them already. If she could kill them, there shouldn't be anyone left who she would have qualms about killing. Two of them are younger, yes, but she's already killed a twelve-year-old, a thirteen-year-old, and a fourteen-year-old.

The problem is, those have been her _only_ kills. She hasn't really had to face anyone who would pose a real threat in a fight. Both Phoebe and Apollo were unconscious or sleeping when she killed them. Even Bentley was already tired from his fight with Dina. Does she really have a chance against anyone who's _not_ at that sort of disadvantage?

Does she really have a chance against _Jayda_? That's what I'm really wondering. What June and Phoenix have to be wondering about their own tributes. Ada has three kills, yes, but all of them were younger and weaker. Jethro and Mel have two kills each, if you count Lacey. Mel didn't _technically_ kill her, but injuring her sealed her fate in the fire. Close enough.

But Jayda's killed _five_ tributes. She's clearly the tribute to beat. But maybe that also puts her at a bit of a disadvantage. Given the choice between fighting each other and fighting _her_ , the other tributes might band together to take her down. Maybe. If they all happen to arrive at the same time. Jethro and Mel, certainly, would probably rather team up to fight her than fight each other.

 _If they arrive at the same time._ First the Gamemakers will have to do _something_ to drive them towards the top of the hill. If that's where they plan to drive them. It's only a matter of time before they have to make their move. I just wonder what it will be.

* * *

 **Just a quick reminder to vote in the Victor poll before the next chapter goes up. Next chapter is the finale, so voting after that would sort of be cheating. ;)**


	31. Takes

**Takes**

" _Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes. History obliterates."_

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

It won't stop raining. I was trying to close my eyes for at least a few minutes. Trying to get a little bit of rest before … well, before what we all know has to happen. Eventually, I'll have to try to find whoever else is left. I'll have to kill them … or die trying. But I was hoping for a little rest first. But this rain is making it impossible to get any sleep. I'm already soaked clean through from the marsh, of course, but still. The fire is out. There's no point in drowning us now unless…

Oh.

I guess that's one way to herd us together. To get us to head for higher ground. It really shouldn't have taken me this long to realize it. But maybe that means I'll be one of the last to arrive. Maybe the others will kill each other before I get there.

I can't count on that, of course. Even I won't be able to survive in the water if it gets too high. Not forever. Maybe I could stay here. Hope that none of the others can swim. That they'll drown before I do. And maybe they would. But there's no guarantee of that. And it's clear that the water is meant to herd us together. If I don't go along now, there's nothing to stop the Gamemakers from sending something else that might force me in the right direction.

So I might as well get moving now. Might as well head for higher ground. I'm not going to be able to get any rest. Not until this is over. So I might as well try to end it as quickly as possible.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I guess they're trying to end this as quickly as possible. The rain has been beating down for at least an hour now. Maybe more. And it's been growing worse. It's been pouring harder.

It's obvious what the Gamemakers are trying to do now. They're trying to force the other tributes to higher ground. But I'm _already_ on higher ground. I'm exactly where they want me to be. Which means there's really nothing for me to do but wait until the others arrive, and hope they don't arrive all at once.

Because if they do, I'll almost certainly be their first target. Even if they don't know how many tributes I've killed – _five_ so far – they know that I'm the one who's been here with a pile of weapons. With plenty of food. I'm probably the tribute to beat, and they'll all know it.

But how many groups could be left? Aside from ours, there weren't many large ones. The girl from Eight was part of a group, but, from the look of things when she was up here with Ivone, she was probably the only one left. Charlotte and Julian are both dead. The pair from Five was part of the other rather large group, but they were mostly on the younger side. If _they're_ the ones who are left, I probably don't have much to worry about.

I shake my head, gripping my dagger tightly. I can't afford to get cocky. _Whoever_ is left, they've managed to survive this long. Which means that _whoever_ is left is a threat, even if they don't particularly seem like one. I can't afford to underestimate anyone. Not now. Not when I'm so close.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I'm so close. So close to going home. There are only four of us left – only four tributes in the entire arena. And it won't be much longer until the end. The rain is meant to drive us together. I'm sure of that. And there's no point in trying to fight that. So I'm heading for the top of the hill. The high ground. It's where everyone else will go, once they realize that the island is flooding.

I just hope I'm not the first to get there. But I can't afford to slow down. I can't swim, and the water is beginning to rise. I haven't heard any cannons – not since the rain started. Which means no one has drowned yet. They must be on the move. Just like me.

Or maybe they're already there. Maybe they're waiting for me. The thought makes my stomach churn. What if I get there, only to find three tributes ready and waiting to kill me? It seems unlikely. How many groups would still be left at this point? How many would still be _together_?

Mine certainly isn't.

But that's my fault. Maybe other groups were able to stay together. It doesn't seem likely, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. Maybe if I wait long enough, they'll all fight each other instead. Maybe.

But maybe not. And if I wait too long, I might drown. The water is rising too quickly. I won't survive long if it reaches me. I'm already tired. I just want this to be over. But there's only one way it's going to end.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

There's only one way this is going to end. I take another deep breath as I keep climbing up the hill, the water rising steadily behind me. The Gamemakers want to drive us together, and if the others are running the same way I am, it's probably going to work.

Of course it's going to work. This is their Game. Their arena. We're just pawns to them. Just little pieces in the Game. We have to do as we're told, or else they might send something worse. If the water didn't work, they might have sent animals. There was a panther mutt in the arena last year that drove some of the tributes together. They might have something like that up their sleeves, if the water doesn't work.

But it probably will. After all, there can't be too many of us who can swim. Except Jethro, of course, if he's still alive.

If he's still alive. The thought brings a lump to my throat. I hope he isn't. I hope he's already dead. That seems like a terrible thing to wish for, but the alternative is worse. The thought that I might find him at the top of the hill … that's worse. Much worse.

I grip my knife tightly as I plunge onward in the dark. Whatever's waiting for me up there, I'll certainly find it soon. I'm almost at the top. It's too dark to see much, but I can see the trees beginning to thin up ahead. It won't be long now before I find out who's waiting for me up there. I just hope I'm not the first to arrive.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

I wonder who will be the first one to arrive. I can't hear much over the rain, steadily beating down on the rocks. Every time I venture close to the edge of the hill, it seems like the water is rising a little more in the distance. But aside from that, I can't see much. It's too dark. Would I even be able to tell if someone was coming? Would I be able to see them in the dark? Would I be able to hear them over the rain?

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning splits the sky. For a second, I can see. But then it's all dark again. Okay. Okay, that was better than nothing. At least now I know that there was no one directly in front of me. _Come on, do it again._

But there's nothing. For what seems like ages, there's nothing. Then another bolt of lightning, and I can see something. No, some _one_. There's someone moving off to my left. Did they see me? Surely they'd be expecting _someone_ to already be at the top of the hill. Okay. Okay, just think. I edge a little closer to where the movement was coming from. Lightning flashes again.

I can see her. One of the older girls – District Five, I think. Clutching a knife. But I have a dagger. I have the advantage – as long as she doesn't have the chance to reach the other weapons. I have to make my move. And I have to make it now.

* * *

 **Ada Lavoisier, 17  
** **District Five**

I have to make my move now. The other girl has already seen me. It's only a matter of time before she attacks. Never mind that she has a dagger and I only have a pair of knives – mine and Bentley's. I have to make my move first. I have to make my move _now_.

I stagger forward in the dark, hoping. Hoping that I'm heading in the right direction. It's so dark, all I can see are shapes. But I think the shape close to me is her. Or maybe it's part of the pile of weapons and food. I don't know. The rain is too thick.

Then lightning strikes, and I see the dagger.

It's too close. Too close to do anything. I can't even duck out of the way as the dagger plunges into my chest. So I do the only thing I can. I grab hold. I clutch onto the girl's arms as the dagger goes in, holding onto her with all my might. Maybe I'm going to die. But I can make sure that I take her down with me.

But why?

The thought briefly crosses my mind as I grip her arm tightly with one hand, clutching my knife in the other. Why kill her, too? If I'm not going to win – and it's clear now by the dagger sticking out of my chest that I'm not – then why does it matter who _does_? I don't have anything against this girl. She never did anything to me.

Nobody ever did anything to me.

Bentley. Apollo. Phoebe. They never hurt me. And I killed them. Why should this girl be any different? I sink to the ground, and as consciousness starts to slip away, I drag my knife across the girl's wrist. The blade goes in deep. She screams, and the knife slips from my hand. Everything is going dark, and the pain doesn't even feel as sharp as the dagger slides out of my chest. I can see it coming towards my neck, but everything is already so blurry, so fuzzy. I don't feel a thing…

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

 _Boom._ The cannon sounds just as I reach the top of the hill. I stifle a gasp. The fighting has already started. The lightning flashes, and I can see them – two girls at the top of the hill. But one of them is lying on the ground. Was that her cannon? It must be. The other girl is still standing. But where's the other person?

"Mel?"

 _Shit._

I was hoping he was dead. I was hoping that I wouldn't have to face him up here. But now I can hear him behind me. Jethro. Is he going to kill me? If he was, why would he talk to me first? Why wouldn't he just sneak up behind me and stab me in the back?

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

If I had any sense, I probably would have just stabbed her in the back. Mel was crouched low, peering over the side of the hill, watching the two at the top. I had a clean shot. I could have killed her. But…

No. No, I couldn't have. Not like this. Because whoever is at the top of the hill, they've just killed someone. They'll be expecting company. Maybe it's better if we take them on together.

Or maybe I'm just stalling. Maybe I simply don't want to kill my ally. My friend. I swallow hard as she turns. "Jethro?"

I nod, then hold my finger to my lips and point to the top of the hill. She nods. There's someone up there. Someone who's still alive.

Someone we can worry about killing before we'll have to face each other.

* * *

 **Jayda Greggory, 18  
** **District Two**

The cannon sounds even before my dagger slices across the girl's throat. The dagger slips from my hand as I sink to my knees, clutching my wrist. Blood is spurting from the wound. Her knife went in deep. She might have cut through an artery. _Shit._ I can't deal with this now. Not when there could be someone coming up the hill at this very second. I reach down, hoping to be able to reach the bottle I tucked in my sock. The bottle of medicine that the Capitol sent to Ra. I have no idea exactly what it might do, but it certainly can't hurt now.

Then I see her. A younger girl. Moving towards me. Lightning again. A flash – but not nearly enough to see if there's anyone else. Is she alone? That would be a good sign. Maybe I could handle one person at a time. Maybe I can kill whoever's left before I bleed to death. Maybe not. I'm already starting to get a bit dizzy, but maybe that's just the rain that's been pounding against my skin for at least an hour. I'm cold. I'm wet. I'm tired.

It's time to end this.

The girl lunges. But she doesn't lunge for my chest or my head or neck or anything that would make sense. She lunges for my legs, a little knife in her hand. I quickly dodge, then kick her in the stomach. Did she really think that was going to work? I lift my dagger, ready to finish her off.

Then I feel the knife.

A knife in my back, stabbing deep. There was someone behind me. How did they get there? Was the girl simply a distraction? I lash out blindly, hoping to hit something. But he's already gone. The girl leaps up, her knife slicing across my throat.

Blood. Wet and sticky. Warm, but everything seems to be growing colder. I was so close. I was so close to going home. So close to winning. To making my family proud.

My father…

It's not fair…

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

It doesn't seem fair. The girl's body goes limp as her cannon sounds. I take a deep breath. Beside me, Mel is still catching her breath, as well. I take a step back. Away from her. I need a moment. Just a moment to recover.

But a moment is all I'm going to get.

We both know what has to happen now.

Mel grips her knife tightly, still coated in the girl's blood. "I was hoping … I thought maybe you were…"

"Already dead?" I finish. "I was hoping the same thing about you."

She shakes her head. "I don't want to—"

"I know." Because I don't want to, either. But we have to.

 _I_ have to.

Slowly, keeping her eyes on me, she picks up the girl's dagger. All I have is a knife. Slowly, backing up, I make my way to the pile of weapons. I reach down. Choose a dagger about the same size. I don't want anything too big, too clumsy. Brute force isn't going to win this fight. She has the right idea.

She's _always_ had the right idea. That's why she's still alive. Why we're _both_ still alive, when everyone else is dead. I grip my dagger tightly, and, suddenly, abruptly, the rain stops.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

The rain stops suddenly. Without any warning or explanation. But they don't have to explain why. I _know_ why. Why the clouds are moving aside, and the moon is suddenly providing enough light for us to see. They don't want us flailing blindly in the dark. They want us to _know_ what we're doing.

They want us to know that we're killing each other.

It's not fair. I swallow hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. Blinking away the tears in my eyes as Jethro takes a step closer. Are those tears in his eyes, too? Or is is just the rain?

It doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

All that matters is that I want to go home. And the only person standing in my way is Jethro. My ally. My enemy.

My friend.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

She's the only person standing in my way now. The only person standing between me and home. I can't put this off anymore. Neither can she. One of us will have to make a move. One of us will have to start the fight.

One of us will have to finish it.

I take another step closer. But I don't charge. Not yet. I can't. I can't _do_ this.

I wonder if she can.

Maybe we could simply stand here forever, circling each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. What would the Gamemakers do then? What _could_ they do? Send mutts to eat us both, I suppose. But what kind of a finale would that be? Certainly not the kind they want. And not the kind I want, either. If she's going to die, I can at least try to make it painless. I can try to make it quick.

I wonder if she's thinking the same thing. Wonder if she's looking for the quickest, easiest way to kill me. She doesn't want to draw this out, either. But that's exactly what we're both doing right now. We're giving the Capitol exactly what they want. Drama. Tension. The longer we wait, the harder it's going to be to strike the first blow. The longer _I_ wait, the greater the chance that she'll be the one to strike first. That she might catch me off guard. I have to do _something._

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. What am I supposed to say? _I'm sorry?_ I am. I'm terribly sorry. I was hoping that she wouldn't be the one I had to face here. Hoping that someone had already killed her. But here she is.

Here _we_ are.

"I'm sorry." The words leave her mouth before they find their way to mine. Her voice is cracking. There are tears in her eyes – or maybe it's just the rain.

I take another step forward. "Me, too."

I'm not sure who charges first.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I'm not sure who charges first, but suddenly we're both moving. I duck beneath his first blow, and he dodges mine. He's fast. Surer of his footing than I am on the slippery ground. And it _is_ still slippery, even though the rain has stopped. It's all I can do to keep my footing as I dodge his next blow, then catch the next one with my own dagger.

 _Just think._

But I don't have time to think. I swing again, and he blocks my blow. He dodges the next one, then ducks below the third. I take a step backwards – a mistake. My foot slips on one of the rocks, and he lunges. Something swipes across my arm as I reach up to block the blow. There's blood, wet and sticky, dripping down into my face.

I lash out, my dagger slicing through the darkness. Jethro leaps back, startled, as I spring to my feet, my arm still bleeding. I don't have time to do anything about that. I don't have time to do anything but block his next blow. And the next. And the next.

He takes a step back. Then another. Maybe he's hoping that if he lets me bleed long enough, I'll get tired. Sloppy. Maybe I'll start making mistakes.

Maybe he's right.

So I'll have to end this quickly.

I lunge, right for his legs. He anticipates the move, and steps back. But I wasn't aiming for him. I was lunging for the spear at his feet. I drop my dagger, snatching up the spear and swinging the end around, striking the back of his legs. Jethro tumbles to the ground, crying out in pain. Maybe the end of the spear nicked his leg. Maybe he's just startled. Either way, he's lost his grip on his dagger.

I drop the spear and lunge for the dagger. Snatch it up. In an instant, I'm on top of him. But before I can bring the dagger down, his hands have closed around my wrists. Holding me off. Keeping the dagger away from his chest.

But how long will he be able to hold me off?

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

How long will I be able to hold her off? I can already feel my grip slipping. There has to be something else I can do. Anything else. I glance around frantically. There's nothing around me that's useful. Nothing but rocks.

That'll have to do.

I let go, but only with one hand. As Mel's blade slides towards my chest, I reach out and grab one of the rocks, hurling it at her head. It strikes its target perfectly – not enough to hurt her, but enough to startle her. Enough to throw off her aim. Her dagger misses its target, plunging harmlessly into the dirt. Before she can pull it out again, I've tackled her.

My first punch lands on her jaw, and I manage a second before she squirms out of the way, reaching for the dagger that she dropped even as I reach for the other one – the one she dropped when she picked up the spear, instead. But she's quicker. Her dagger slices across my shoulder before mine nicks her arm. Both of us stagger to our feet and take a few steps back. Catching our breaths. Getting our bearings.

Okay.

Just think.

I'm bleeding, but so is she. It's only a matter of time before one of us makes a mistake.

I just have to make sure that it isn't me.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

It's only a matter of time. I take a step backwards. Towards the body of the girl from Two. The girl we killed together. Maybe this would have been easier if we hadn't teamed up. If we hadn't decided to kill her together. If I'd let Jethro attack her first – alone – maybe she would have killed him. But would I have been able to kill her?

No. No, we needed to kill her together. We needed to be the last two to face each other. This was what had to happen. This was how this had to end. Maybe this is how it was always going to end. I take another step backwards as Jethro takes a step towards me. Then another. One way or another, this is going to end soon.

We're both tiring. I can see that in his eyes. Hear it in his rasping breaths. I know mine must sound the same. We're both so tired. Each of us just wants this to be over. But as long as we're both alive, it can't be over. As long as…

Then I see something. Something bulging in the girl's sock. She was reaching down for something when I attacked her. What could be there? What was she reaching for? I have a few seconds before Jethro can reach me. Maybe I can find out. Maybe it's something useful.

Or maybe it's nothing. For all I know, she was just reaching down to pull up her sock because it had slipped down in the fight. For all I know, she was trying to take it off to use it to staunch the flow of blood from her arm. For all I know, all that's in there is a rock. Is it really worth the risk?

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

She sees something on the ground. I don't have much time to wonder what it might be. Right now, it's distracting her, and that's all that matters. I slow my pace a little, pretending to catch my breath. Right. Pretending. Sure. Just pretend it's all part of the plan. But I _do_ need to catch my breath. I'm exhausted. Maybe she'll see that and—

Sure enough, she bends down, curious. She took the bait. I charge forward as quickly as I can, just as her hand pulls something from the other girl's sock. A bottle of some sorts. She turns her attention to me quickly, but not quickly enough. She barely manages to dodge my first blow, and my second hits home, slicing across her stomach. But not deep enough to do any real harm. I take another step forward.

She takes a step backward. Then another. Towards the edge of the hill. Maybe she's trying to draw me closer in the hopes of flinging me over the edge. If that's the plan, she's sorely miscalculated. The cliff is over on the other side of the hill. If she tries to lure me down this way, all she'll find is a slight slope and then some water.

Water. Water is good. I swing again, driving her backwards. But I can't shake the feeling that she's _letting_ me. That this is part of a plan.

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Maybe she's doing exactly what I've been doing for the past few days – going with her instincts and pretending it's a plan. So far, it's served both of us pretty well. But it's only going to help one of us survive.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

I wish I could say this was all part of a plan. But it's all I can do to block Jethro's blows as he drives me backwards towards the edge of the hill. It's sloping downwards a little, but that's not really a problem. What _is_ a problem is the water. I have no idea how far it's risen since we made it to the top of the hill. If the water gets too deep, if it gets too slippery…

Okay.

That's a plan.

I grit my teeth. This is going to hurt. But it might be the only way to end this. Stepping backwards, I trip, falling flat back onto the ground. Jethro lunges on top of me, his dagger raised. Ready to strike. But when he does, for a moment, he'll be vulnerable. All I have to do is wait.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

My dagger is raised. Ready to strike. In that instant, I catch a glimpse. A glimpse of her eyes. She's terrified. Helpless. She never wanted this. She never wanted _any_ of this. All she wanted was to go home.

That's still all she wants.

The same thing I wanted. Home. Back to my uncle and the rest of my district. Back to fishing and swimming and a simple life. But can I ever really go back, knowing that I killed her? My ally?

My friend?

I hesitate. Only for a moment. But that's enough. Enough time for her to raise her dagger, instead. Enough time for me to smile as her blade to find its way into my stomach, just as she lets out a startled cry.

"Wait!"

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

"Wait!" The word leaves my mouth before I can even realize what I'm saying. But I'm not calling to him to wait. He already _did._ That's why I'm unharmed, and he … he has a blade sticking out of his gut.

 _My_ blade. The blade that wouldn't stop, even as I called out. Trying to tell _myself_ to wait.

But I didn't wait. I couldn't. I couldn't hesitate, even when he did. I couldn't stop. I couldn't _let_ myself, even if I wanted to.

Because I just want to go home.

Jethro's blade clatters to the ground, hitting a few rocks along the way. My own dagger is still lodged in his stomach. But there's blood seeping out around the wound as he sinks to the ground. I can feel tears in my eyes.

He hesitated.

He wasn't going to kill me.

* * *

 **Jethro Brackish, 14  
** **District Four**

"You weren't going to kill me." Mel's voice is cracking as the words leave her mouth. I can barely see her face as she kneels beside me, gripping the dagger, ready to pull it out. To end everything. "You stopped. You weren't going to kill me. _Why_?"

I can hear myself gasping for breath. I _was_ going to kill her. Wasn't I? That's what I've been trying to do, isn't it? But when it came to it … I couldn't. And she could.

What does that say about me?

What does that say about _her_?

I grip her hand tightly. It says that she was the one who earned this. The one who _deserves_ this. Who deserves to win. To go home. Because when it came down to it … she wanted it more. She wanted to win.

She wanted to _live._

I grit my teeth. "Of course I was going to kill you," I spit. "I was just savoring the moment. Stupid. Stupid of me." It's a lie. But maybe she'll feel less guilty about…

About killing me. Everything is starting to go dark. "Liar," she whispers, her hand clasped tightly around mine.

I smile a little. "Yeah."

"Ready?"

No. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. Maybe no one ever is. But I nod a little. I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be. And there's not much point in putting it off now. I take a deep, gasping breath. "Ready."

She pulls the blade out. Blood begins to flow. So much blood. She tosses the blade away and grips my hand tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted to. I just wanted to go home. I just want…"

"I know."

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **District Nine**

"I know." It's the last thing I hear as his hand goes limp in mine. The cannon sounds as his eyes close one last time. I can hear something above me. A hovercraft. They've come to take me away.

And now I don't want to go.

I wrap my arms around Jethro's body, cradling him as tightly as I can. As if that might bring him back. I take the vial that I dropped – the vial I took from the girl's sock – and pour it into his mouth. Maybe it'll bring him back. Maybe…

But it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. His cannon already sounded. He's dead.

And I'm alive.

I won.

So why doesn't it feel like winning?

* * *

 **Not much to say here. Congrats to Mel and her submitter. Also, congratulations to Jethro, who won the poll by a slim margin.**


	32. History

**History**

" _History obliterates. In every picture it paints, it paints me and all my mistakes … He may have been the first one to die, but I'm the one who paid for it. I survived, but I paid for it."_

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **Victor of the Second Hunger Games**

I'm still alive. That's the first thing I remember. I won. I made it out of the arena. I'm alive.

They must have given me some sort of sedative, because I don't remember returning to the Capitol. But when I open my eyes, I'm in a bed. I'm warm, dry, comfortable … but I still can't shake the feeling that I shouldn't be here. That I shouldn't have been the one to survive.

"Mel?" I turn towards the voice, but even that hurts. My whole body is stiff and sore. There's a bandage on my arm, and another across my stomach. Phoenix is sitting in a chair next to my bed, watching me. I open my mouth, but no words come out. "It's all right," Phoenix assures me. "You're all right. You're safe."

Safe. The word sounds so strange. It's been so long since I've been safe. Even before the Games, even before I was reaped, I never really felt safe – not since the war started. But now … now I'm safe? What does that even mean? How am I supposed to believe that, when my heart is still racing, when I can't stop my eyes from darting back and forth, my hands from shaking? How am I supposed to feel safe now?

How am I ever supposed to feel safe?

Phoenix takes one of my hands in hers. "It's all right. Take your time. You won't need to be ready for the cameras for at least a few days."

"The cameras?"

"For your interview."

I close my eyes. I don't even want to _think_ about what happened in the arena. I certainly don't want to _talk_ about it. "It's all right," Phoenix assures me. "You won't have to say much. Just sit there and look happy to be alive, and Noelle will do the rest."

 _Look happy to be alive._ She makes it sound so simple. I'm alive, but _happy_ isn't the word I'd use. Relieved. Maybe even grateful. But not happy.

But there's no point in arguing with her. I don't have the strength, anyway. I can already feel myself drifting back to sleep. Maybe when I wake up, I can explain. Maybe. But something tells me she still wouldn't understand.

* * *

 **Commander Phoenix LaVelle  
** **District Nine Escort**

She doesn't really understand yet. That much is obvious as Mel drifts back to sleep. She still wants to forget what happened. To hide from it. Can't really blame her for that, I suppose. She killed four people, including a boy who had become a friend. That's not something anyone would want to remember. But it's also not something that anyone would be able to forget.

She sleeps most of the next day, and a good part of the next, only waking up to eat and drink. By the third day, she's finally ready to get out of bed. But she still seems … I don't know. Shaky. Nervous. As if she's worried that something's going to jump out of the closet and attack her. But she's safe. The Games are _over_. Why doesn't she understand that?

It isn't until the fifth day that she finally decides she's ready to face the cameras. About damn time, too. The audience is getting impatient. Sure, they know she's alive, but that's not enough. They want to _see_ her. They want to see how she's going to react.

I wish _I_ was certain about how she's going to react.

I help her dress in a long, golden-brown dress for the interview. Golden-brown to match the stalks of wheat from her district. A district she'll be going home to soon. I just wish she seemed a bit _happier_ about it. The Capitol wants a Victor who's happy to be _alive_ , not one who still seems scared out of her wits.

But she's the Victor they have, I remind myself as she takes a seat onstage. And they're quite willing to make do with her, from the sound of their cheering – a sound that's almost deafening even from backstage. They don't care that she still looks a bit nervous, a bit frightened. They have a Victor, and that's all they need.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **Victor of the Second Hunger Games**

 _Just sit there and look happy to be alive._ That's what Phoenix said. But the crowd, the audience … they aren't happy that I'm alive. They're just happy that everyone else is _dead_. They're just happy that I killed.

I try to focus on Noelle, to listen for her voice, but, even so, I miss her first question. "What?" I ask, and I can feel my face flush as Noelle raises her hands to signal the crowd to be quieter. Why can't everyone just be _quiet?_

Noelle smiles patiently and repeats the question. "I asked if it was good to be back in the Capitol."

No. No, it isn't. I don't want to be here. I just want to go _home_. But I have to get through this interview first. So I nod. I try to smile. "Yes."

"You went through quite a lot to get back here, Mel."

Is that a question? "Yes, I did."

"Should we remind the audience of some of the highlights?"

What? I glance around. What does that mean? Does she want me to describe what happened? That's exactly what Phoenix said I wouldn't have to do. "I … I don't really want to talk about—"

Noelle smiles. "Oh, don't worry, dear. You won't have to talk about a thing."

I breathe a sigh of relief, but then she nods offstage. The lights dim, and I can see something lowering behind us – a screen of sorts. What are they doing? Images flash on the screen. Images from … from the reapings. Flashes of video are interspersed with the images. I can see Jethro laughing after his name is called. Phoenix calls my name, and I can see myself walking shakily to the stage.

A few images from the Capitol flash on the screen. Jim and me in our silly seed-covered chariot outfits. Jethro and me meeting up at the fire-building station and deciding to form an alliance. I want to look away, but I can't. He looks so … so …

So alive. And now he's dead.

A few other tributes are shown, but it's clear that they're trying to focus on Jethro and me. On our alliance. Our … our friendship. Our interviews flash by, and then the arena appears. Twenty-four of us, rising around a pile of weapons. In spite of myself, I have to admit that I'm curious. I never found out what happened to Jim. Phoenix didn't tell me. Maybe she thought I wouldn't want to know. Maybe she knew they were going to show me.

The gong sounds, and, almost instantly, Jim lunges at the girl from Ten. As they're wrestling on the ground, they're joined by the boy from Eleven. Mantle. Until Jayda throws a knife into Mantle's back – a knife that Mantle uses to slice Hannah's throat. Ivone, the girl from Twelve, stabs Lexi through the back. Jethro's district partner. At least she didn't seem to suffer. It was over quickly. So quickly.

The girl from Six puts up more of a fight, but soon she's gone, too – speared by the boy from One. Everyone else is running – including Jethro and me – leaving the boy from One, the girl from Two, and the pair from Twelve at the top of the hill. Some of the groups are stuck trying to climb down a steep cliff, but Jethro and I took an easier path – that much is clear now. We stop to catch our breaths on the hill, and I brace myself for what I know is coming.

Then I see him – the little boy from Eight, racing down the hill as fast as he can. So fast that he doesn't see Jethro until it's too late. Jethro chokes the life out of him with his bare hands, and we take off as his ally, the girl from Three, arrives. She's quickly joined by her district partner, and the two of them agree to an alliance.

An alliance I know Jethro and I will eventually destroy.

Meanwhile, the groups that are climbing down the cliff face don't seem to be faring very well. The girl from Eleven is the first to slip, tumbling to the rocks below. She's still alive but badly injured, and her allies agree to split up to scout out the area, leaving two of them with her. Jim is next to fall, after making it more than halfway down the cliff. The boy from Seven finishes him off quickly, which I suppose I should be grateful for. He didn't suffer. That's something.

Night falls, and most of us settle down to sleep – but not the group at the top of the hill. They head off to hunt, sending the girl from One and the boy from Two racing off into the night after a message from the Capitol warns them that they're being hunted. Realizing the top of the hill has been abandoned, they sneak up to grab some supplies – and so does the boy from Six. Not a bad plan. It isn't long before he stumbles across the girl from Seven, who's taken refuge in a tree. But the boy from Six chose an axe, so it doesn't take him long to fell the tree and kill the girl.

Morning dawns – only the second day in the arena, and there are already seven tributes dead. The boy from Ten is next, killed by a giant sea serpent after distracting it long enough to allow his allies to flee. I can't help a shudder. It was just dumb luck that the Gamemakers sent the mutt after them and not us. We just happened to have another pair of tributes near us, instead. If the pair from Three hadn't come after us, would the Gamemakers have decided to spice things up on our side of the arena, as well?

But the pair from Three _was_ there. Jethro and I climb a tree, and Jethro jumps down on the boy. The girl runs off, and I jump, killing the boy and saving Jethro. If only I'd been a little slower then, he might have died. Maybe I wouldn't have had to kill him…

Or maybe I would have died. There's no way to know. The girl from Eleven and the boy from Five are next, killed by their own ally – the girl from Five. Only the fact that the boy from Seven had already left saves his life. Night falls, and the group at the top of the hill sets out again – this time leaving the girl from Twelve behind. They have better luck this time, and manage to find the girl from One and the boy from Two. Soon, the pair of them are dead, along with the boy from Twelve.

The girl from Twelve, meanwhile, has forged an alliance with the girl from Eight, who snuck up to the top of the hill hoping for food and supplies. The girl from Three stumbles across the boy from Seven. It's a close fight, but, eventually, the boy is the one standing. The two hunters find their way back to the top of the hill, and the girl from Twelve turns on them. She's killed, but not before injuring the boy from One.

The girl from Two finishes him off even after the Capitol sends a bottle of medicine. The same bottle that she was reaching for later, when Jethro and I attacked her. As terrible as it sounds, I'm glad she didn't use it then to heal her ally. Jethro and I would never have been able to handle fighting both of them together.

Meanwhile, the boy from Six has been busy gathering wood into a pile. So _he's_ the one who lit the fire. He sets it ablaze, then heads for the swamp and waits. Jethro and I notice the blaze, and he grabs my arm. "That way. Run." I do, and so does he – in the opposite direction. Towards the swamp, as I suspected. He takes shelter in the water, and I keep running. At the top of the hill, the girl from Two waits.

Meanwhile, the girl from Five has found her former ally, the boy from Seven. Both of them lunge, but, before long, she's killed her third ally. I'm still running from the fire, quickly catching up to the girl from Eight, who turns back when she hears me screaming. I stab her and take off, leaving her to die.

Leaving her to burn.

I want to look away. But I can't. My eyes are fixed on the screen. I didn't see it then – how she died – but I suppose I always knew. The fire engulfs her, burns her alive. It's slow. It's painful. Finally, the screams stop. But I can still hear them.

Maybe I'll always hear them.

Back in the swamp, Jethro and the boy from Six take refuge from the fire – and Jethro takes advantage of the situation. He can swim better than any kid from Six, after all. He stabs the boy, who staggers to the shore and tries to patch himself up – to no avail. Soon, he's dead, and, before long, the rain douses what little remains of the fire.

One by one, we all realize that we have to head for the top of the hill. But, by sheer dumb luck, it's the girl from Five who arrives first. If she hadn't…

If she hadn't, I would be dead. I have no doubt of that. The only reason Jethro and I stood a chance against the girl from Two was because she was injured. The girl from Two stabs the girl from Five through the chest, but the girl from Five uses her last moments to drag her own knife across the other girl's arm. The blade goes deep, giving Jethro and me a chance.

It's a chance we take advantage of. I lunge at her legs while Jethro circles around behind, stabbing her in the back. It shouldn't have been that simple. _Wouldn't_ have been that simple, if she hadn't been distracted by her own wounds. If she hadn't been reaching for the bottle of medicine the Capitol had sent – or if she'd been able to reach it a little sooner – things might have gone very differently.

But, instead, her cannon sounds, leaving me and Jethro. They play our fight in its entirety. He attacks. So do I. We both apologize. Neither of us wants this. But we attack each other, anyway. Because that's what has to happen. That's what the Capitol wants.

Strike. Block. Dodge. Over and over, until we're both exhausted. I take the bottle from the other girl's sock. Jethro drives me back down the hill. I trip, waiting for him to strike.

But he doesn't.

He just smiles.

He smiles as my blade enters his stomach. I hear my own cry of "Wait!" as he slumps over, blood flowing from his wound. "You weren't going to kill me. _Why_?"

I don't hear the rest. Not this time. And I don't see it – not through the tears in my eyes. Tears that I can't stop from spilling over. He wasn't going to kill me. Jethro is dead. And I'm alive.

I'm still alive.

I survived.

I…

* * *

 **Commander Phoenix LaVelle  
** **District Nine Escort**

They have to end the interview early. Mel barely responds as they call her name, and she says nothing as she's led off the stage. The audience that was cheering just a few moments ago when she killed Jethro onscreen is dead silent now. They don't know what to make of their new Victor, completely inconsolable over the death of her ally.

As soon as she's offstage, I wrap my arms around Mel, who's still weeping uncontrollably. What the hell were they _thinking_? What the hell were they _expecting_? What did they _think_ was going to happen when they made her watch that? Did they think she was going to be as excited as they were to relive the moment? Did they think she was going to be proud of killing Jethro? Her ally? Her _friend_?

Maybe. Maybe that's exactly what they thought. And how were they supposed to know any different? After all, last year's Victor was rather proud of himself after the Games.

But that was different. He killed, yes. But his first kill was a girl who had been torturing one of his allies. And the other two were strangers. He never knew their names, their faces, their stories. Maybe that made it easier.

But Jethro … Mel knew him _too_ well. "He wasn't going to kill me," she whispers again, her face buried in my dress. And she's right. He _wasn't_ going to kill her. That was the difference between the two of them, in the end. When push came to shove, he didn't have what it took to kill an ally.

She did. But only in that moment. In one fleeting moment of panic, she did the unimaginable. And now she has to live with it.

She'll always have to live with it.

* * *

 **Mel Mills, 13  
** **Victor of the Second Hunger Games**

I'll have to live with this for the rest of my life.

The train begins to slow as we approach District Nine. I can feel a lump forming in my throat. I can already see people – people gathered around the train tracks, waiting. Waiting for _me_. For their Victor.

But I don't feel like a Victor. I'm alive. I survived. But I don't feel like I've won _anything_. Nothing but a life of regret. A life of having to live with what I did. With what I became. With what I _am_.

I'm a killer. I killed _four_ people. I killed my friend. All so that I could come back here. Back _home_. But now that I'm here…

The train door slides open, and I can see them. My mother. My little brother, Robbie. There are tears in their eyes as they race forward, and suddenly I'm engulfed in a hug. There are tears brimming in my eyes as I hold them close. "You're really back," my mother whispers. "You really did it. You're really here."

I did. I really did it. I'm really here. And, for one wonderful moment, none of it matters. What I did in order to get here. What I _had_ to do. What I am. For a moment, as they embrace me, none of that makes a difference. They waited for me. They _love_ me. And nothing is going to change that.

Nothing.

Not even the Games.

* * *

 **And that's a wrap. Thanks for sticking around. I know it's been a bit of a bumpy ride, but we got through it. I might start up another one of these at some point, but, for the next few months, I really need to focus on school. Congrats again to Mel and her submitter, and thank you to everyone who submitted. It's been fun.**


End file.
